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 Ralph Waldo Emerson.
 
 SOME NOTED 
 
 V 
 
 PRINCES, AUTHORS, AND STATESMEN 
 
 OF OUR TIME. 
 
 BY 
 
 CANON FARRAR, JAMES T. FIELDS, ARCHIBALD FORBES, 
 
 E. P. WHIPPLE, JAMES PARTON, LOUISE 
 
 CHANDLER MOULTON, 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 
 EDITED BY JAMES PARTON. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., 
 
 13 Astor Place. 
 
 )
 
 Copyright, 1885, 
 By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO 
 
 ELECTROTYPED 
 BV RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 
 
 ■nwiCK « •kith, *»m««t, kxton.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I "'ROM the earliest ages, readers have shown a desire to know 
 -*• something of the habits and demeanor of the authors who have 
 pleased them. We find, too, that this natural and harmless curiosity- 
 has been abundantly gratified, for almost every kind of Johnson that 
 has appeared in the world has had in his train the species of Boswell 
 suited to him. Plato himself took evident pleasure in recording 
 trifling details of Socrates' conduct and conversation. 
 
 The taste for information of this kind may become excessive ; and, 
 of late, it has been frequently gratified at the expense of decency and 
 justice. Literature itself has suffered some opprobrium from the need- 
 less and disproportionate exhibition of the foibles and limitations of 
 gifted persons, on the system devised by the author of " The Devil 
 on Two Sticks." 
 
 If we ask a public benefactor to sit for his portrait for our grati- 
 fication, we should not deny him the privilege of brushing his hair, 
 and arranging his cravat, before going to the photographer's. 
 
 The reader will find in this volume a number of articles upon 
 noted persons, written, for the most part, by noted persons, who have 
 known them familiarly, or have visited them in favorable circum- 
 stances. Nearly all the essays were written originally for " The 
 Youth's Companion" of Boston, — a periodical conducted with extraor- 
 dinary liberality, tact, and success, now advanced some years into 
 the second half-century of its existence. Few volumes have ever been 
 published containing so many interesting names, whether as subjects 
 or as authors ; and I believe there is nothing in any of them which 
 violates the reasonable privacy of public individuals.
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 If I may judge from my own pleasure in reading these sketches, 
 the reader will find most of them to possess unusual interest. He 
 will have the happiness of seeing Charles Dickens in his most enga- 
 ging hours, delineated by his daughter ; and Dean Stanley of Westmin- 
 ster Abbey, described by Canon Farrar, his associate and colleague. 
 He will see Thackeray, sitting on a trunk, chatting with a chance 
 acquaintance ; and the illustrious Victor Hugo, as he appears, day by 
 day, to his secretary and amanuensis. Emerson, Longfellow, Prescott, 
 Willis, Whittier, Beaconsfield, Gladstone, Macaulay, Choate, and many 
 others, are described for us here by those who have seen and known 
 them well. Here, also, are emperors, kings, queens, princes, and other 
 ornamental personages, who excite the curiosity even of the stanch- 
 est Republicans, often their compassion, and sometimes their cordial 
 respect. 
 
 I commend the volume to the favorable regard of the public. 
 
 JAMES PARTON. 
 Newburyport, May i, 1885.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Reminiscences of Arthur Penrhyn Stanley . . . 
 A Morning with Dr. Francis Trevelyan Buckland . 
 
 Dickens with his Children 
 
 Recollections of Dickens 
 
 Recollections of Thackeray 
 
 A Day with Mrs. Dinah Mulock Craik 
 
 A Meeting with George Eliot 
 
 The House of Commons 
 
 Four Famous Scenes in the House of Commons . 
 
 Lord Beaconsfield 
 
 The Prince of Wales at Home 
 
 The Three Daughters of the Princess of Wales . 
 
 King and Queen of Denmark 
 
 Royal Children of Denmark 
 
 The King of Bavaria 
 
 End of Prince Louis Napoleon 
 
 Recollections of Leigh Hunt 
 
 Mary Russell Mitford 
 
 Charles Lamb 
 
 Thomas Hood 
 
 Thomas Campbell 
 
 College Life of Macaulay 
 
 Thomas Carlyle 
 
 Tea with Carlyle 
 
 Carlyle: His Work and his Wife 
 
 Victor Hugo at Home 
 
 Victor Hugo 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Canon F. W. Farrar . . 
 
 I 
 
 William H. Rideing . . 
 
 2 5 
 
 Mamie Dickens .... 
 
 30 
 
 James T. Fields . . . 
 
 48 
 
 Charles H. Brainard 
 
 • 52 
 
 Sarah M. Dawson . . 
 
 57 
 
 Mrs. John Lillie . . . 
 
 62 
 
 William H. Rideing . . 
 
 66 
 
 Henry W. Lucy . . 
 
 72 
 
 Canon F. W. Farrar . . 
 
 93 
 
 Archibald Forbes . 
 
 100 
 
 Nugent Robinson . . . 
 
 107 
 
 Carl Steen de Bille 
 
 112 
 
 Carl Steen de Bille . . . 
 
 116 
 
 Mrs. John Lillie . . . 
 
 121 
 
 Archibald Forbes . . . . 
 
 !3 J 
 
 James T. Fields . . . . 
 
 138 
 
 James T. Fields . . . . 
 
 142 
 
 James T. Fields . . . . 
 
 146 
 
 James T. Fields . . . . 
 
 151 
 
 James T. Fields . . . . 
 
 i57 
 
 E. P. Whipple 
 
 164 
 
 James Parton 
 
 *73 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 178 
 
 Louise Chandler Moulton . 
 
 183 
 
 Richard Lesclide . . . . 
 
 188 
 
 James Parton 
 
 204
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 St. Pierre James T. Fields . 
 
 Jules Grew James Pat-ton . . 
 
 Sir Walter Scott James T. Fields . 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's Home Louise Chandler Moulton 
 
 Charles Kingsley E. P. Whipple . . 
 
 Lord Coleridge and the English Law Courts . . W. L. Woodroffe . 
 
 Charles H. Spurgeon Louise Chandler Moulton 
 
 William Macready James Parton . . 
 
 Anecdotes of Jenny Lind Anonymous . . . , 
 
 A Grandson of Robert Burns Will Carleton . . 
 
 Mr. Gladstone James Parton . . 
 
 Mr. Gladstone in the House Louise Chandler Moulton 
 
 College Life of Rufus Choate E. P. Whipple . . . 
 
 Reminiscences of Ralph Waldo Emerson .... Louisa M. Alcott . . 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow J. T. Trowbridge . . 
 
 The College Life of Prescott the Historian . . Edwin P. Whipple . 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis James Parton . . . 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne's College Days G. P. Lathrop . . . 
 
 The Home of J. G. Whittier Hezekiah Butterworth 
 
 The Czar, Alexander II., in the Field, 1877 . . . Archibald Forbes . 
 
 ADOLPHE Thiers Anonymous .... 
 
 Queen Victoria Louise Chandler Moulton 
 
 Recollections of Abraham Lincoln Ben : Perley Poore 
 
 PAGE 
 211 
 2l6 
 221 
 
 225 
 23O 
 
 237 
 242 
 247 
 252 
 
 257 
 26l 
 272 
 277 
 284 
 289 
 297 
 306 
 312 
 
 3 r 9 
 324 
 33 1 
 336 
 347
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson Frontispiece. 
 
 Rugby School 3 
 
 Jerusalem Chamber, etc., — Westminster Abbey 15 
 
 Westminster Abbey 21 
 
 Dr. F. T. Buckland 28 
 
 Charles Dickens with his Children 32 
 
 The Rehearsal 38 
 
 Charles Dickens with his Dogs 42 
 
 Waiting for the New Year 46 
 
 W. M. Thackeray 53 
 
 The Home of Mrs. Craik 59 
 
 Grift House 63 
 
 Entrance to House of Commons 69 
 
 Earl of Beaconsfield 75 
 
 The Expulsion of the Irish Members 79 
 
 Mr. Bradlaugh 85 
 
 Mr. Gladstone 89 
 
 Lord Beaconsfield 95 
 
 The Prince of Wales at Home 103 
 
 The Daughters of the Princess of Wales 108 
 
 The King and Queen of Denmark 113 
 
 King George of Greece and the Empress of Russia 119 
 
 The King and Royal Palace of Bavaria 123 
 
 The Royal Family of Bavaria 127 
 
 The Death of Prince Napoleon 135 
 
 Charles Lamb 147 
 
 Thomas Hood 154
 
 x LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thomas Campbell 160 
 
 College Life of Macaulay 167 
 
 Tea with Carlyle ..." 181 
 
 Thomas Carlyle 185 
 
 Victor Hugo at Home 189 
 
 Victor Hugo and his Grandchildren 195 
 
 Victor Hugo's Garden and his Study 201 
 
 Victor Hugo 207 
 
 Jules Grevy 217 
 
 Edinburgh Castle 226 
 
 Home of Sir Walter Scott 227 
 
 Charles Kingsley 233 
 
 Lord Coleridge 239 
 
 Charles H. Spurgeon 245 
 
 Jenny Lind 253 
 
 Mr. Gladstone and House of Parliament 273 
 
 Rufus Choate 281 
 
 Birthplace of Longfellow 291 
 
 Longfellow's Early Home 293 
 
 Longfellow's Home in Cambridge 295 
 
 William H. Prescott 301 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis 309 
 
 Hawthorne and his Home 315 
 
 John G. Whittier 321 
 
 Mr. Whittier's Birthplace 322 
 
 Oak Knoll, Danvers 323 
 
 Alexander II., Czar of Russia 325 
 
 The Czar in the Field 329 
 
 Adolphe Thiers 333 
 
 Queen Victoria 339 
 
 Prince Albert 343 
 
 Prince Albert Memorial 344 
 
 Asia (Albert Memorial) 345 
 
 America (Albert Memorial) 345 
 
 Abraham Lincoln 349
 
 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 By CANON F. W. FARRAR. 
 
 I. 
 
 IT is needless to say that I have not the least intention of intruding 
 upon the province of the biographer. He who writes the life of 
 Dean Stanley will not have before him an easy task. He will be writ- 
 ing the biography of a man, who, among his many exquisite gifts, was 
 himself one of the most excellent of biographers. 
 
 His deeply affectionate spirit, availing itself of an almost unrivalled 
 literary skill, has invested the memorials of his father, mother, and 
 sister with an indescribable charm ; and his life of Dr. Arnold will 
 always live among the classic works of our language. That book, the 
 earliest which he ever wrote, has added in no small degree to Dr. 
 Arnold's fame, and has extended the legacy of his example to regions 
 which otherwise it would never have reached. 
 
 But, besides this, — besides the nameless grace which hung about 
 all his actions, and made even casual acquaintances think of him with 
 the feelings which we usually reserve for our dearest friends, — Dr. 
 Stanley was one of the most remarkable figures of the age in which 
 he lived. 
 
 An eminent English dignitary, who was not among the number of 
 those many theological controversialists to whom the mention of Stan- 
 ley's name was the signal for an anathema maranatha, once said to me, 
 " I think that another generation will regard him as having been the 
 foremost ecclesiastic of his age." 
 
 I incline to agree with that judgment. I will say nothing of living 
 men, and shall therefore be spared the task of comparing their merits
 
 2 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 # 
 
 with his. But I have often heard the late Bishop of Winchester, 
 Samuel Wilberforce, spoken of as the first Churchman of his time ; 
 and I do not think that the work and influence of Bishop Wilberforce 
 are at all comparable to the work and influence of Dean Stanley. 
 
 It is true that Stanley had no pretension to that splendid power of 
 oratory with which the great bishop used to delight the world when he 
 was at the zenith of his fame. In his later years, the bishop either 
 grew more indifferent, or age had made him " speak with a diminished 
 fire, and think with a diminished force : " but I remember having heard 
 some of his great speeches when I was a boy ; and the "rolling words, 
 oration-like," of that powerful and thrilling voice, will live in my memory 
 till I die. 
 
 I well remember one occasion at King's College, London, when I 
 saw the late Archbishop Sumner and Monsieur Guizot and Dean Buck- 
 land and Mr. Gladstone, with other men of eminence, hanging on his 
 lips. Dean Stanley never possessed this gift of overpowering elo- 
 quence. But, on the other hand, the fascination of the orator soon 
 fades into a dim tradition ; and the writings of Bishop Wilberforce are 
 of little permanent -importance, nor are his sermons likely to live as 
 written compositions. 
 
 Dean Stanley, on the other hand, has most powerfully moulded the 
 views of his age. It now seems as if a full century must separate us 
 from the days when his friend, Dean Milman, was fiercely attacked by 
 the anger of an alarmed orthodoxy, simply because he had spoken of 
 Abraham as "an Eastern Sheik." But the change has been chiefly due 
 to the late Dean of Westminster. His lectures on the Jewish Church 
 marked an epoch. In these volumes he applied his " picturesque sen- 
 sibility" to sacred subjects; and, investing the ancient annals of the 
 chosen people with all the brightness of contemporary history, he made 
 the world feel that Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and David and Isaiah 
 were not shadowy emblems and dim abstractions, but living, breathing 
 human beings, of like passions and temptations with ourselves. 
 
 It was an inestimable service which he thus rendered. He made 
 the Bible, not a supernatural oracle, but a loving voice of friendly guid- 
 ance. Into the dead letter he infused a living spirit. Heroes and 
 patriarchs of the old dispensation, at whom men had only gazed as 
 though they had been unreal figures woven on some fading tapestry, 
 stepped forth as men, instinct with human life and noble passion. It 
 seemed as though for the first time they spoke and breathed, and stood 
 upon their feet.
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 Mr. Augustus Hare, in a paper in " Macmillan's Magazine," has 
 given some delightful remembrances of the Dean's early days, in a 
 home which was almost ideal in the beauty of its conditions and sur- 
 roundings. Perhaps the beauty and sweetness of English life can never 
 be seen to greater advantage than in a country parsonage where the 
 circumstances are easy, the surroundings lovely, and the influences emi- 
 nently refined. But no English parsonage could ever 
 have furnished a more delightful home than that in felt; 
 
 which Arthur Stanley spent his earliest years. 
 
 A father, gifted, liberal, courageous, simple- 
 
 ^tas^ 
 
 [hapei 
 
 hearted, passing through the world 
 
 with open eyes, and with an open 
 
 heart, beloved and honored alike by 
 
 the rich and by the poor ; a mother 
 
 with a character and an intellect 
 
 "delicate as porcelain ; " brothers and 
 
 sisters of high promise and distinct 
 
 individuality, natures tender and gracious, such as wore, "when they 
 
 looked without, the glow of sympathy, and, when they looked within, 
 
 the bloom of modesty," — such was the circle amid which the bright 
 
 childish presence of the future Dean played like sunlight. 
 
 In later days he had his own sorrows to endure ; and though, on the 
 whole, his life was singularly blessed and unusually prosperous and 
 happy, yet when life's sorrows and disappointments came to him, as 
 they come to us all, he must have found in the memories of his child-
 
 4 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 hood, spent in such a home, a fountain of sweet waters, which shed its 
 healing and refreshful dews, even over the most weary paths of his 
 earthly pilgrimages. 
 
 In one of the many papers which were written about Lord Beacons- 
 field at the time of his death, it was mentioned, as a curious circum- 
 stance, that he and Cardinal Newman, when they were very little boys, 
 used to meet and play together in the gardens of Bloomsbury Square. 
 Dean Stanley used sometimes to mention his first meeting with the 
 present prime minister of England. Mr. Gladstone was then about 
 fifteen years old, and Arthur Stanley was not ten. They met at the 
 house of Mr. Gladstone's father, and he introduced the boys to each 
 other. One of the first remarks of the future premier to the future 
 Dean was, " Have you read Gray's poems ? " 
 
 " No," said little Stanley. Whereupon the other boy said, " Then, 
 you should read them at once : " and, taking down the volume from the 
 shelf, he gave it to him ; and Stanley took it home with him, and read 
 it through for the first time with great delight. 
 
 I cannot help suspecting that such a conversation between two 
 English boys — even between two such boys — who might chance to 
 meet each other for the first time, was far commoner then than it 
 would be now. Athleticism had not in those days assumed its present 
 gigantic proportions, nor was a non-athletic boy despised and looked 
 down upon as he now sometimes is at public schools. 
 
 The Dean used to look back on his training at Rugby as one of the 
 greatest blessings of his life. Although "Arthur," in "Tom Brown's 
 School-days," cannot be taken as an exact picture of what he was as a 
 Rugby boy, yet certainly some features in that charming character were 
 taken from the Dean. 
 
 He greatly enjoyed Mr. Hughes's school-story ; and, though he 
 used to say that his want of skill and interest in games cut him off 
 from that lively sympathy with it which he otherwise might have had, 
 he certainly thought that " Arthur " had some reference to himself and 
 his own school experiences. 
 
 But in him the thoughts of Rugby were concentrated in his remin- 
 iscences of Dr. Arnold, for whom he retained a deep veneration till the 
 day of his death. Arnold's sermons had an effect upon him which was 
 little short of marvellous. When he went to Oxford, and heard the 
 famous "John Henry Newman" of those days, he was greatly struck 
 and fascinated ; " but," he added, " Newman's sermons have faded out 
 of my memory, whereas Dr. Arnold's never will.
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY, 5 
 
 "At Rugby, Arnold was my idol and my oracle in one. Afterwards 
 he was not exactly my oracle, but I reverenced him wholly and entirely 
 to the end. I have never felt such reverence for any one since. The 
 boys in general — with the exception of a few in the sixth form — 
 saw but little of Arnold. In 'Tom Brown's School-days,' the scene 
 between the head-master and the boys who were late after ' Hare and 
 Hounds,' gives a most correct impression of his manner. 
 
 "Arnold never was an object of tender affection to his pupils. We 
 regarded him with awe and reverence, not wholly unmingled with fear. 
 J never got over this fear," said the Dean, "to the last. But, as a man, 
 I think Arnold has never been surpassed. His death was a terrible 
 blow to me, and it was the first great bereavement which I experienced. 
 As soon as I heard of his death, I determined to make the offer to 
 write his life ; but, until I began it, I had no notion how many inter- 
 esting letters of his had been preserved. It took me two years to 
 write it, and I never enjoyed any work so much." 
 
 Before I leave the reminiscences of his school-days, I will quote a 
 few lines of a school exercise which he wrote before he was fifteen. 
 He was in the fifth form, and had not yet come under Dr. Arnold's 
 care. One of the fifth-form masters used occasionally to set his 
 boys a subject for verse-composition, and on one occasion the subject 
 was "Jacob's Dream." Young Stanley's exercises were always the 
 best. We shall not be surprised at this when we read the follow- 
 ing lines : — 
 
 " Wearied with grief, and whelmed in burning shame, 
 To Bethel's vale the way-worn Patriarch came. 
 There sad he sat, and viewed with sickening sight 
 The last faint glimmer of returning light ; 
 And then, as Heaven drew on her nightly vest, 
 On the rough rock he wept himself to rest. 
 Is there no sacred gleam, no heavenly ray, 
 To light the wanderer on his weary way? 
 Yes ! when all earthly parts lay wrapt in sleep, 
 His soul sprang forth athwart the boundless deep; 
 Shrank the dark curtain of the starry sky, 
 Unfolding worlds of life and light on high. 
 And, like the bow that from the tempest springs, 
 A mystic ladder reared its countless rings ; 
 And forms, whose beauty spoke no mortal birth, 
 Waved their bright wings, and trod the meaner earth, 
 And upwards rose, where, throned in sapphire light, 
 Shone forth revealed the glorious Infinite."
 
 6 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 This specimen of the exercise will probably be sufficient to show 
 that very few boys have been able, at the age of fourteen, to write 
 English verse as it was written by young Arthur Stanley at Rugby. 
 
 I do not know whether the fact that his attention had been thus 
 early called to the subject of Jacob was the reason why he recurred 
 to this subject so incessantly in his later sermons. It is certain that 
 he did so. The extract which I have given above is taken from a 
 sermon on "Jacob and Esau ;" and after a sermon on the same sub- 
 ject, preached before the University of Oxford, one of his friends 
 observed, with a smile, that he had been preaching on that topic all 
 his life. 
 
 II. 
 
 He entered Oxford as a Balliol scholar ; and the Balliol Scholar- 
 ship in those days, being almost the only open scholarship at Oxford, 
 was even more the blue ribbon of undergraduate distinction than it 
 is now. To his actual Oxford days he did not often revert, nor even 
 very frequently to the days when he was a young fellow and tutor of 
 University College, — a college which was all the dearer to his imagi- 
 nation because it is one of the oldest of them all. 
 
 Even as a young man he had so high a reputation, that no less a 
 person than the prime minister, Lord Melbourne, wrote to ask his 
 opinion about the Hampden excitement. Stanley said, in reply, that 
 if, for any reason, Dr. Hampden was superseded, Dr. Arnold would be 
 the best person for the Regius Professorship of Divinity ; but that, if 
 that were too strong a measure, the best candidate would be Dr. Jacob- 
 son. Dr. Jacobson afterwards became professor, and is now Bishop 
 of Chester. 
 
 When the Dean was a young man at Oxford, he was one day read- 
 ing the passage in the " Pilgrim's Progress " where Christian, at Castle 
 Beautiful, is shown the relics and pedigrees of the saints. He was 
 very much struck with the passage ; and he determined, if he ever 
 became Professor of Ecclesiastical History, he would begin his first 
 course of lectures by quoting it. Years afterwards, he did become 
 Professor of Ecclesiastical History ; and it will be seen, by referring 
 to the first page of his published lectures, that he carried out the 
 intention which he had thus early formed. 
 
 He preached not unfrequently in the chapel of his college, and it 
 need not be said that his preaching always excited the deepest atten-
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 7 
 
 tion and interest. w\ said "always." He used, however, to tell an anec- 
 dote about one sermon, which, at the time, appeared to him to be 
 listened to with less respect than usual. 
 
 He observed a tendency to laugh, and was totally unable to account 
 for the fact that there seemed to be less of reverence and eagerness 
 than was usually manifested. He discovered the cause afterwards. 
 Always somewhat careless about matters of dress and personal appear- 
 ance, he had put on his college-cap with his gloves inside of it. When 
 he took off his cap, the gloves remained on the top of his head, and 
 retained their somewhat precarious hold during the whole sermon. 
 Indeed, he walked back to his stall with the gloves still on his head. 
 The little accident had been too much for the levity of young auditors. 
 All through the sermon, there had been a certain amount of excitement 
 as to the question whether the gloves would stop on, or drop off ; and, 
 by way of excuse for the university undergraduates, it may be doubted 
 whether any audience would not have been a little distracted by so 
 unusual a phenomenon. 
 
 Whenever he preached before the university, St. Mary's Church 
 was always thronged to hear him. It was there that he delivered the 
 discourses which were afterwards collected into the beautiful little vol- 
 ume called "Sermons on the Apostolical Age." In these he treats of 
 the life and distinctive teaching of the chief apostles. The facts on 
 which he touches, and his method of handling them, are now far more 
 familiar than they were when those sermons were written. At that 
 time they bore the mark of distinct originality. Indeed, it may be 
 said, that, to many of his readers, the Dean now appears to have been 
 less original than he really was, from the rapidity with which his views 
 were disseminated. The brilliancy and universality of his success 
 tended to obliterate the fact that he had originated the style of treat- 
 ment which was adopted by so many successors. 
 
 A young undergraduate, who had been a pupil of mine at Harrow, 
 once told me that he was so powerfully moved by a sermon of the 
 Dean's in the pulpit of St. Mary's at Oxford, on the dignity of intellect- 
 ual labor, that he "felt inclined to stand up and scream." He was not 
 at all a youth of emotional character, and he could perhaps have chosen 
 no more expressive tribute to the power of the Dean's appeals than the 
 homely phrase in which he described his impression. 
 
 In his "Sermons preached in the East," and in his "Sinai and 
 Palestine," which is one of the most delightful of his books, the Dean 
 recorded some of the impressions of his travels. Just as in his lee-
 
 8 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 tures on the Jewish Church, he made the men and women of sacred 
 story as well known to us as though we had met them in actual life, 
 so, in his " Sinai and Palestine," he made us as familiar with the physi- 
 cal geography and general features of the Desert and the Holy Land 
 as we are with those of our own country. 
 
 He had, to an unrivalled degree, the power of connecting scenes 
 with the events and personages of history. This habit of his mind 
 gave constant interest to his life. He was always on the lookout for 
 facts which enabled him to recall the chief incidents in the lives of 
 celebrated men. I once drove him to Hampstead and Highgate ; and 
 a mere afternoon drive, which might otherwise have been entirely 
 commonplace and unprofitable, became pleasant and instructive, be- 
 cause he made it an opportunity for visiting the house and grave of the 
 poet Coleridge, and the spots which tradition has identified with the 
 well-known story of Sir Richard Whittington. Conversation with him 
 could never become uninteresting when the sources of it were fed by 
 so many delightful and profitable topics. 
 
 Sometimes, as may be imagined, his eagerness for resemblances and 
 identifications led him into mistakes. When I came to Westminster, 
 he always begged me to preserve a flat gravestone in St. Margaret's 
 churchyard, on which was inscribed the name of "Mr. John Gilpin." 
 He had himself, I believe, had the inscription — or rather the name, 
 for the inscription had long been worn out by the many feet which 
 passed over it — cut deeper on the gravestone ; because he supposed 
 that "the poor inhabitant below" had been the John Gilpin whose ride 
 to Edmonton has been immortalized by Cowper. 
 
 Cowper was a Westminster boy : and the Dean supposed that he 
 might have heard of John Gilpin, and seen his name on this stone ; for 
 it is known that Cowper received his first deep religious impression by 
 stumbling over a skull rolled by the sexton out of a grave which he was 
 digging in this churchyard. I found, however, on inquiry, from some 
 of the oldest inhabitants, that the John Gilpin there interred could not 
 have the remotest connection with Cowper or his famous ballad. He 
 appears, if the information given me was correct, to have been a publi- 
 can who had died in Westminster little more than sixty years ago. 
 
 In telling of his travels in the East as one of those who accom- 
 panied the Prince of Wales during his Eastern tour, the Dean used to 
 laugh at his equestrian adventures. Like his dear friend, Dr. Cotton, 
 late Bishop of Calcutta, the Dean was totally unable to ride ; and, when 
 the party reached Egypt, his chief troubles arose from this circum-
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. g 
 
 stance. Whenever they arrived at a landing-stage in their voyage up 
 the Nile, they found splendid horses awaiting them, which the rest of 
 his companions mounted with much satisfaction. But the Dean plain- 
 tively declared, that, when he got on horseback, the horse used to be at 
 once aware of his rider's powerlessness, and always started off at full 
 speed across the sands, to the great amusement of everybody else. 
 
 On one occasion, however, the horse galloped right towards the 
 portals of the Temple at Edfou ; and Mr. Stanley, as he then was, was 
 only saved from great danger by an Arab, who, at considerable risk to 
 his own life, flung his arms around the horse's neck. After this acci- 
 dent, horses used to be provided for the rest of the party, and a white 
 donkey for him ; and then he was quite happy. "And," he added, "if 
 only I had a white donkey of the same kind in London, I think that I 
 would ride him in Rotten Row ! " 
 
 During this tour he left a deep impression, not only by the invari- 
 able geniality and brightness of his intercourse, but also by the simple 
 kindness which won the hearts of all the servants and humbler depend- 
 ants of the party. To this he never, of course, alluded ; but he was 
 fond of telling one anecdote. On one occasion he was near the sources 
 of the Jordan, and a little separated from the rest of the party, when 
 he saw a group of Arabs — apparently a chief with his attendants — 
 riding towards him. They were magnificently mounted, as the Arabs 
 usually are ; and their long white bernouses flowed over their robes and 
 arms. Suddenly the chief rode out in advance of the rest, and said 
 to him, in perfect English, "Arthur Stanley, I presume ? I am very 
 glad to see you." 
 
 His astonishment at this remarkably unexpected salutation was 
 lessened when it turned out that the supposed Arab chief was Mr. 
 Gifford Palgrave, the celebrated traveller, whose well-known volume of 
 travels has much of the vigor and liveliness of Herodotus himself. 
 
 When the Dean was writing his " Sinai and Palestine," he not only 
 trusted to his own observations, but read every book from which he 
 hoped to derive assistance. It is interesting to know, that among these 
 books was a short treatise written by Napoleon the First, as a military 
 work, on the Geography of Sinai. The Dean used to say that it was 
 so much better — so much clearer, more lucid, and more practical- — 
 than any thing which he had read before, that he used it almost as a 
 sort of basis, or outline, of his own work. 
 
 He used to tell a very singular coincidence about the first Napoleon. 
 Once, when he was abroad, he had been shown a copy-book written by
 
 IO ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 the future emperor when he was a child. The copy-book, which was 
 only half finished, contained, among other things, some geographical 
 notes ; and the last words which the boy had written in it contained a 
 sort of unconscious prophecy. As though chance had been indulging 
 itself by making the little boy write an ironical and almost sardonic 
 reference to his own ultimate destiny, the unfinished copy-book had 
 broken off at the words, — 
 
 " Saintc Htflhie petite He." 
 
 III. 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 My reminiscences of Dr. Stanley would be more than imperfect if 
 I did not add something respecting his connection with Westminster 
 Abbey. Rich and fruitful as was all his life, more even than the lives 
 of thousands whom the world bears in grateful remembrance, the six- 
 teen years of his work as Dean of Westminster are those which will be 
 specially prominent in the recollections of Englishmen and Americans. 
 
 It is not from any accidental desire to pay a compliment to Ameri- 
 cans that I here mention them. Westminster Abbey is one of the 
 favorite shrines of their pilgrimage. It is, I suppose, the first place 
 which most Americans visit when they come to London. There is no 
 spot in the world which more forcibly brings home to their minds the 
 conviction that they and we form one great nation. 
 
 In my own church of St. Margaret's, which stands close beside the 
 abbey, the almost unsolicited munificence of American citizens has 
 placed a magnificent stained-glass window to the memory of Sir Walter 
 Raleigh, whom Dean Stanley used to call " the Father of the United 
 States," and whose headless body lies buried under the chancel-floor. 
 On this window is the following quatrain from the pen of the American 
 minister, Mr. J. Russell Lowell : — 
 
 " The New World's sons, from England's breast we drew 
 Such milk as bids remember whence we came : 
 Proud of her past from which our present grew, 
 This window we inscribe with Raleigh's name." 
 
 The feeling expressed in these four stately lines is never stronger 
 in the heart of an American than when he wanders thoughtfully along 
 the venerable aisles of the great abbey, —
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 1 1 
 
 " Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 
 Melts, if we cross the threshold." 
 
 The late Dean, always catholic, always cosmopolitan in his sympa- 
 thies, habitually regarded his cathedral as one of the strongest links in 
 the chain of golden associations which unites the two nations in peace 
 and amity, and draws them together by the glorious memories of their 
 common ancestry. 
 
 Hence the Dean, who was accessible to all, was specially accessible 
 to American visitors. They were always welcomed with simple but 
 most delightful hospitality, which was abundantly repaid to him in the 
 memorable visit which he paid to America so shortly before his death. 
 This visit may be ranked among the happiest incidents of his saddened 
 later years. He was refreshed by new scenes, and the enjoyment of 
 those scenes was unalloyed by the associations of a past over which 
 Death brooded with the shadow of his darkening wings. 
 
 Amid the strife of tongues to which he was subjected in England, 
 in consequence of the narrow bitterness of ecclesiastical parties, he 
 was delighted with the warmth of a welcome given to him with unani- 
 mous accord in America by all classes and all schools of thought. But 
 the enthusiasm of that welcome was chiefly due to the brilliant and 
 noble manner in which he had discharged his duties as Dean of West- 
 minster, and had thus formed the acquaintance of many leading Ameri- 
 cans. For to know Dean Stanley was to love him. Acquaintance with 
 him soon ripened into friendship. 
 
 Fond as he was of historic associations, it is a curious fact, that, 
 when he was appointed Dean of Westminster, he knew scarcely any 
 thing of the great abbey. Almost the first thing he did was to send 
 for the late Sir Gilbert Scott, who was architect of the abbey, and go 
 with him over the entire building, from floor to roof, and from the roof 
 to the topmost towers. I can well imagine the intense and ever-grow- 
 ing interest which he must have felt in that first tour when every thing 
 was new to him. I can do so all the more because, when I was ap- 
 pointed canon, I made the same peregrination with the celebrated 
 architect. 
 
 Sir Gilbert knew the abbey well, and his " Gleanings " are full of 
 valuable facts. He now lies buried beneath the pavement of the nave, 
 and the services which he rendered to the building give additional fit- 
 ness to the choice of his final resting-place. But his knowledge of 
 Westminster was chiefly architectural. The Dean's knowledge of it 
 was historical, and, indeed, universal.
 
 12 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 Probably no clean who ever existed has clone more for the fame 
 and popularity of the cathedral over which he has presided than Dean 
 Stanley did for Westminster. His personal reputation, his immense 
 popularity, his winning and gracious desire to be kind and courteous 
 to all, his sermons, — often so pathetic, often so eloquent, invariably 
 so full of interest, — all tended to gather the immense crowds who 
 thronged the services, and wandered about the building all day long. 
 
 The work which he did in this way was part of the high conception 
 which he had formed of the duties of his position, and of the proper 
 functions of an English minister. He wished it to be a place where 
 men of all classes and conditions of life might feel themselves at home, 
 and in which the members of every religious party might claim a com- 
 mon interest. The pulpit of the abbey was freely opened to Church- 
 men of every school of thought, whether they called themselves High, 
 or Low, or Broad. 
 
 In the abbey, and there alone, — owing to the immunity from epis- 
 copal jurisdiction, and the almost autocratic powers intrusted to its 
 dean, — vast congregations have been addressed by Presbyterians, like 
 Principal Tulloch and Principal Caird ; by Nonconformists, like Dr. 
 Stoughton ; and even by a layman, like Professor Max Miiller. 
 
 When the Dean first realized that he was dying, and I stood by his 
 bedside, taking down his last articulate words and messages, the mes- 
 sage about which he took the most anxiously scrupulous care was one 
 which I here print for the first time exactly as it was delivered. I 
 mentioned it to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who quoted it from 
 memory at a meeting of the Upper House of Convocation, and it was 
 copied by many newspapers in the form in which it was given by his 
 Grace : but the words which the Dean actually spoke, now lie before 
 me as I took them down in pencil with great difficulty from the accents 
 of a voice which was rapidly becoming unintelligible ; and they were 
 these : — 
 
 " In spite of almost every incompetence, I yet humbly trust that I 
 have sustained before the mind of the nation the extraordinary value 
 of the abbey as a religious, liberal, and national institution." 
 
 But, among the many unequalled services which he rendered to 
 Westminster, his " Memorials of Westminster Abbey " must be men- 
 tioned among the chief. Up to the time when it was written, the tombs 
 and the history of the abbey were comparatively little known, even by 
 scholars so accomplished as the late Dean Milman, who for many years 
 was one of the canons. The thousands who visited it were compelled,
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 1 3 
 
 by lack of knowledge, to look with a blank and unintelligent eye on 
 many a monument which is now rife with interest. 
 
 The Dean left no source of information unsearched. He was greatly 
 assisted by the magnificent publication of the abbey registers, with 
 genealogical and other notes by the American antiquary, Colonel Ches- 
 ter. That distinguished man of letters died some months ago ; and, 
 in memory of his disinterested researches, the present dean and chapter 
 are about to erect a tablet in his honor in the nave. But I think that 
 the extent, variety, and minuteness of literary and historical research 
 which the Dean has compressed into his " Memorials " have never been 
 duly estimated. 
 
 To write this book, he was obliged to expend a vast amount of time 
 in the study of memoirs, poems, and journals belonging to every period 
 of English history. Nor did he neglect living tradition. He derived 
 some particulars about coronations and funerals from Mr.. Turle, who 
 was for more than half a century an organist of the abbey, and with 
 whom it is to be feared that many interesting reminiscences have passed 
 away. 1 But the stores of information which the Dean accumulated 
 would have been useless in many hands. 
 
 It required his almost magical lightness of touch, his skill in 
 arrangement, and felicity of expression, to infuse vivacity and interest 
 into materials which would otherwise have been cumbrous and lifeless. 
 His task was achieved with such success, that no book has ever been 
 written, or can ever be written, upon the abbey which brings home to 
 the reader in an equal degree its unique and manifold claims to be 
 cherished by the nation as an imperishable possession. 
 
 The Dean never seemed to tire of the abbey. Few days passed 
 on which he did not enter it. He made a point of wandering about 
 it on the bank-holidays, when it is most densely thronged ; and he 
 never missed an opportunity of joining this or that group of holiday 
 sight-seers, and saying something to awaken their interest in the par- 
 ticular monument at which they happened to be looking. 
 
 One day he saw an intelligent little boy in the abbey, and asked 
 him his name. The boy mentioned his name, and added that his father 
 was a Wesleyan minister. 
 
 " Oh ! then," said the Dean, " you will very much like to see the 
 monument to John and Charles Wesley." 
 
 He took the lad to the monument, and was so much pleased by his 
 
 1 Mr. Turle died in July, 1882.
 
 H ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 quickness and knowledge, that he wrote to his parents, and gave him 
 the opportunity for a better education than would otherwise have been 
 open to him. He was always particularly desirous to deepen the influ- 
 ence of the abbey over the minds of the poor and of the young. 
 
 As regards the young, he was fond of telling the story how one 
 day a poor bookseller's boy, weary with the heavy load of books which 
 he was carrying, stopped to rest in the abbey, and, sitting down, began 
 to cry at the thought that he should probably spend all his life in carry- 
 ing books ; but suddenly, as he lifted his eyes, he saw the memorials 
 of the illustrious dead all around him, and, taking heart of grace, deter- 
 mined that he, too, would do some useful work in life. That boy was 
 the great and learned missionary, William Marshman, the father-in-law 
 of Sir Henry Havelock. 
 
 One of the most interesting occasions on which I visited the abbey 
 with the Dean, was when we took steps to re-inter the remains of 
 Queen Katharine of Valois, wife of Henry V. 
 
 The fortunes of this queen were strange in death as well as in life. 
 The daughter of Charles VI. of France, wife of our Henry V., mother 
 of Henry VI., grandmother of Henry VII., a link between the royal 
 houses of France and England, she was regarded as queen of both 
 countries. She had been received on her first visit to England " as an 
 angel of God," and, in France, had sat with her husband at a great 
 banquet in Paris, among a crowd of dukes, princes, and barons, gor- 
 geously apparelled, and crowned with a precious diadem. 
 
 After her husband's death, she and her son, Henry VI., erected to 
 him the splendid chantry in the Confessor's Chapel, which is built in 
 the shape of the first letter of his name. But, after Henry's death, 
 she made a mesalliance with Owen Tudor, who — whatever may have 
 been his supposed extraction from ancient British kings — held no 
 higher position than that of a soldier of the guard. 
 
 In consequence of this, she fell into contempt and oblivion ; and, 
 after her death, her remains were so badly coffined, that her body was 
 actually visible more than two centuries afterwards, when, in the reign 
 of Charles II., Pepys, in his diary, records that he went into the abbey 
 on his birthday, and "kissed a queen." This scandalous neglect con- 
 tinued until more than a century ago, when the body was stowed away 
 in the vault of Sir George Villiers, father of the Duke of Buckingham, 
 who was the favorite of James I. and Charles I. 
 
 When the Villiers vault was opened, after the funeral of one of the 
 Percies, in the vault which adjoins it, we thought that it wculd be a
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 15 
 
 good opportunity to remove the body of the neglected queen — once 
 so beautiful and so renowned — to a more fitting burial-place. It was 
 not right that she should be indebted, so to speak, to the chance 
 vacancy in the grave of the Buckinghamshire knight. 
 
 When the coffin was lifted out of the vault in the Chapel of St. 
 Nicholas, it tumbled to pieces before our eyes ; and there lay the mor- 
 
 tal remains of the wife of our hero-king, — the Kate of Shakspeare's 
 magnificent tragedy, and the ancestress of the mighty Tudors. 
 
 The remains were nearly perfect, but were little more than a skel- 
 eton, except that the muscles of the legs and feet still remained. The 
 skull, small and exquisitely shaped, lay on something which had once 
 been a silken cushion. Large pieces of the cerecloth still remained, 
 though they crumbled to dust at the least touch.
 
 16 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 No one was present when this occurred, except the Dean, the clerk 
 of the works, and myself. We stood in silence, and in deep and rev- 
 erent thought, beside the mortal relics of the lovely princess who had 
 been the ancestress of so many of our kings, and who, after so much 
 glory and so many sorrows, had passed away nearly four and a half 
 centuries ago. Neither the Dean nor I was tempted by the passion 
 for abstracting memorials from the resting-places of the dead. Not 
 one bone, nor one shred of silk, was disturbed, except (if I remember 
 rightly) a very small piece of the white cerecloth, which was sent to 
 her Majesty the Queen. 
 
 A strong oaken coffin was made with all speed, and the body was 
 then buried in the chantry Queen Katharine built. Here it rests, 
 immediately over the tomb of her husband. The top of the tomb was 
 formed of what had once been intended for an altar-stall in the chan- 
 try-chapel ; and the translation of the very simple Latin inscription, 
 which we engraved upon it, is to the following effect : — 
 
 " Here rests at length, after so many years and so many vicissitudes, 
 the body of Katherine of Valois, daughter of Charles VI. of France, 
 wife of Henry V., mother of Henry VI., grandmother of Henry VII." 
 
 It happened to the Dean, for various necessary reasons, to be 
 obliged to open several of the royal vaults, always, of course, for ade- 
 quate causes, and with royal permission. Thus, it was desirable to open 
 the tomb of Richard II. for indispensable repairs. The common story 
 about his death relates that his skull was cleft from behind by a blow 
 from the battle-axe of Sir Piers Exton in the dungeon of Pontefract 
 Castle. 
 
 It was seen, however, that nothing of the kind had happened to the 
 body which lies there interred ; and there are some doubts whether 
 Henry IV. really brought the corpse of Richard II. to London from 
 Pontefract, and whether the body which he exposed to view was not 
 rather that of Richard's chaplain, Maudsley, who is known to have 
 closely resembled him. The historic doubt on this subject will never 
 be solved. The mode in which the hapless monarch met his death is 
 a secret of the prison-house forever. 
 
 On another occasion it became necessary to open several of the 
 royal vaults, to see whether it was true that the body of James I. had 
 been removed from the abbey by the Puritans. If this had proved to 
 be the case, there would have been some small shadow of an excuse 
 for the base act of the Parliament of Charles II. in turning out of the 
 abbey the bodies of Cromwell and his adherents.
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 1 7 
 
 It was most interesting to hear the Dean describe the chaotic ful- 
 ness of the vault of the Stuarts, which contains the coffins of Prince 
 Henry ; Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia ; Mary of Orange ; Mary Queen 
 of Scots ; ten children of James II. ; eighteen children of Queen Anne ; 
 Prince Rupert ; Prince George of Denmark ; and many others. This 
 crowded Stuart vault formed a great contrast to the majestic quietude 
 of the Tudor vault, in which only Queen Elizabeth and Queen Mary 
 Tudor lie side by side. 
 
 The body of King James was at last found, very unexpectedly, in 
 the vault of Henry VII. and Elizabeth of York ; and, as though one 
 of the workmen employed in the interment had wished to show his 
 scorn for the author of the " counterblast against tobacco," nothing 
 was to be seen beside the coffin except the fragments of an old tobacco- 
 pipe. But in none of these searches was the smallest relic or fragment 
 ever removed, although it is believed that some tombs had not fared 
 so well at the hands of earlier deans. 
 
 It often fell to the Dean's lot to show great potentates over 
 the abbey. " Of all the foreign kings and queens," he used to 
 say, "whom I have ever shown over the abbey, who do you think 
 took by far the most intelligent interest in it, and knew most about 
 all its details ? " Few persons would have guessed that it was 
 Queen Emma of the Sandwich Islands, who quite delighted the 
 Dean by her vivid interest in every tomb, and every detail of the 
 structure. 
 
 On the other hand, he used to relate the stern determination with 
 which the late unfortunate Czar — the murdered Alexander III. of Rus- 
 sia — went through the building. He looked quite infinitely "bored." 
 Not one remark which he made showed the smallest enthusiasm about 
 any thing which he saw ; but he had come to visit the abbey, and he 
 was determined, in soldier-fashion, to go through the duty without 
 flinching. For three hours and more he wearily accompanied the Dean 
 from the floor to the triforium, and did the business with much of the 
 proverbial melancholy with which Voltaire said that the Englishman 
 amuses himself. 
 
 On another occasion (though I forget whether this was in the 
 Dean's time), a former Queen of the Netherlands, being present at 
 one of the services, had been shown into the stall of the subdean. 
 One of the vergers, unaware of this, came to her, and told her that 
 she must not sit there. "Oh! but," exclaimed the lady, "I am the 
 Queen of the Netherlands ! "
 
 1 8 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 " You may be the Queen of the Netherlands," said the unabashed 
 verger, " but you are not the Subdean of Westminster ; and there you 
 cannot sit." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Let us walk over the abbey as it is to-day. I fear, that, on entering 
 the abbey, you will at first be greatly disappointed. The grimy, dingy 
 look of the place will vex you, particularly if you choose for your 
 visit a dull day. I grieve to say that the dinginess is inevitable. The 
 abbey rears its towers into an atmosphere thick with the smoke of 
 innumerable chimneys, and laden with acids which eat away, with 
 increasing rapidity, the surface of its stones. 
 
 And yet, as you enter the cathedral which enshrines memorials of 
 nine centuries of English history, — as you pass under the roof which 
 covers more immortal dust than any other in the whole world, — you 
 can hardly fail to feel some sense of awe. And, before you begin to 
 study the cathedral in detail, I should advise you to wander through 
 the length and breadth of it without paying any attention to minor 
 points, but with the single object of recognizing its exquisite beauty 
 and magnificence. 
 
 You will best understand its magnificence as a place of worship if 
 you visit it on any Sunday afternoon, and see the choir and transepts 
 crowded from end to end by perhaps three thousand people, among 
 whom you will observe hundreds of young men, contented to stand 
 through the whole of a long service, and to listen, with no sign of 
 weariness, to a sermon which perhaps occupies an hour in the delivery. 
 
 Here the Puritan divines thundered against the errors of Rome : 
 here the Romish preachers anathematized the apostasies of Luther. 
 These walls have heard the voice of Cranmer as he preached before 
 the boy-king on whom he rested the hopes of the Reformation ; and 
 the voice of Feckenham, as he preached before Philip of Spain and 
 Mary Tudor. They have heard South shooting the envenomed arrows 
 of his wit against the Independents, and Baxter pleading the cause of 
 toleration. They have heard Bishop Bonner chanting the mass in his 
 mitre, and Stephen Marshall preaching at the funeral of Pym. Here 
 Romish bishop and Protestant dean, who cursed each other when liv- 
 ing, lie side by side in death ; and Queen Elizabeth who burned Pa- 
 pists, and Queen Mary who burned Protestants, share one quiet grave, 
 as they once bore the same uneasy crown.
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 19 
 
 Here, too, you may see at a glance the unity of our national history. 
 I use the expression our national history designedly. The abbey will 
 remind us, as no other place could remind us, that the history of Eng- 
 land is no less the history of America, and the history of America the 
 history of England. All that was bitter in the memories of the Amer- 
 ican War of Independence has long been buried in the oblivion of our 
 common amity. 
 
 The actual traces which have been left by that struggle upon the 
 abbey-walls are few. Gen. Burgoyne, "whose surrender at Saratoga 
 lost America to England," lies buried, not in the abbey, but in the 
 north cloister, without a monument. A small tablet in the southern 
 aisle records the shipwreck and death of William Wragg, who, as his 
 epitaph tells us, alone remained faithful to his country, and loyal to his 
 king, and was consequently obliged to escape from Carolina. 
 
 The most marked trace of the war is to be seen in the monument 
 of Major Andre; and the fact, that, in 1812, Andre's body was sent 
 back to England by the Americans, with every mark of courtesy and 
 respect, shows how rapidly all traces of exasperation were obliterated 
 between brother nations. 
 
 There are several other objects which will remind Americans of 
 their country. One is the beautiful window in honor of Herbert and 
 Cowper at the western end of the nave, in the old baptistery, which was 
 the munificent gift of an American citizen. The other is some faint 
 adumbration of Boston Harbor, which may be seen at the opposite end 
 of the abbey, — the east end of Henry the Seventh's Chapel, at the 
 corner of the memorial window raised by the late "Dean to the memory 
 of his wife, Lady Augusta Stanley. A third is the tomb in the nave 
 which was raised to Viscount Howe by the Province of Massachusetts. 
 The genius of Massachusetts is represented weeping over the monu- 
 ment. Ticonderoga appears on the monument of Col. Townsend. 
 
 Even in walking through the abbey, to learn its general aspect, you 
 will be struck by the bewildering multiplicity of tombs. There is not a 
 Valhalla in the world in which repose so many of the great and good. It 
 is this which has made the deepest impression on multitudes of visitors. 
 
 There, over the western door, with his arm outstretched, and his 
 haughty head thrown back, as though in loud and sonorous utterance 
 he were still pouring forth to the Parliament of England the language 
 of indomitable courage and inflexible resolve, stands William Pitt. 
 History is recording his words of eloquence. Anarchy sits, like a 
 chained giant, at his feet.
 
 20 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 And within a few yards of this fine monument is the no less inter- 
 esting memorial of Charles James Fox, — of Fox, who opposed Pitt's 
 public funeral ; of Fox, whom he once charged with using the language 
 of a man "mad with desperation and disappointment." 
 
 Return with me to the nave. Directly we enter by the west door, 
 we are struck by the unbroken unity of design presented by the archi- 
 tecture. Though Henry III. began to rebuild it in 1245, and it was 
 continued by Edward I. in the thirteenth century, by Richard II. in 
 the fourteenth, and by Henry V. in the fifteenth, yet it is only when 
 you look at the great west window, which was not finished till nearly 
 the sixteenth century, that the style of architecture changes from the 
 Gothic to the Perpendicular. The work of Henry III. ends with the 
 first pillar of the choir. 
 
 You will observe that the next pillars have annulets of copper round 
 the pilasters, and that the walls are richly carved and diapered as far 
 as the first pillar of the nave. That pillar marks the termination of 
 Edward the First's work. The continuation of the nave under Rich- 
 ard II. is less rich. The completed nave was first used for service in 
 the Te Deum in honor of the great victory at Agincourt by Henry V. 
 The great west window was built by Abbot Estney in the reign of 
 Henry VII. 
 
 The most noticeable tombs in the nave (and to the nave alone we 
 must at present confine our attention) may be classed together under 
 different heads. 
 
 There are the monuments to great statesmen, to the naval com- 
 manders, to former deans of Westminster, and to the great Indian 
 heroes. It is singular how exceedingly bad many of the epitaphs are, 
 and how, as we approach the eighteenth century, they grow more and 
 more verbose and futile in exact proportion as the sentiments expressed 
 by the statuary grow more and more irreligious and fantastic. 
 
 The inscription on the grave of Clyde briefly records his " fifty years 
 of arduous service." On Outram's monument is a bass-relief of the 
 memorable scene in which he met Havelock at Delhi, and, resigning to 
 him the command, nobly served as a volunteer beneath his military 
 inferior. On Pollock's grave is the appropriate text, " O God, Thou 
 strength of my health, Thou hast covered my head in the day of bat- 
 tle." Under the bust of Lawrence are carved the striking words, "He 
 feared man so little, because he feared God so much." 
 
 A very different class of monument are those which were once 
 admired as the masterpieces of the sculptors Read and Roubiliac. To
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 21 
 
 Read is due the monstrous incongruity of crudely assembled emblems 
 which record the name of Admiral Tyrrell, and which commanded the 
 special admiration of John Wesley when he visited the abbey in 1771. 
 Of other monuments, Goldsmith complained that " they confer honor, 
 not on the great men, but on little Roubiliac." They mark the pseudo- 
 classic and allegorical taste of the eighteenth century. 
 
 On the monument of Marshal Wade, Fame is protecting from the 
 hands of Time his military trophies. On that of Gen. Fleming are 
 
 Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Minerva and Hercules, busy, apparently, with emblems of Wisdom, 
 Prudence, and Valor. 
 
 Another of these monuments is that of a Gen. Hargrave, of whom 
 Goldsmith contemptuously speaks as "some rich man." A cherub is 
 blowing the last trumpet ; and, as he blows, the huge pyramid tumbles 
 to pieces, while the general rises from his sarcophagus. This part of 
 the sculpture is so ill-managed, that the shattered pyramid is usually 
 taken as a sign that the dean and chapter shamefully neglect the tombs. 
 
 At the right of the monument, Death, a crowned skeleton, is being 
 overcome by Time. The crown falls off his head, and Time breaks the 
 fatal arrow of the monster across his knee.
 
 22 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 These allegorical designs all seem to be smitten with the fatal blight 
 of unreality. It is obvious that the sculptors and designers were chiefly 
 occupied with a sense of their own ingenuity, instead of being inspired 
 by the grandeur of their subjects. 
 
 Yet we should always bear in mind, that even the worst monument 
 in the abbey has its historical significance. Its allegories, its ugliness, 
 its obtrusiveness, are like tide-marks which indicate the height or the 
 depth to which the taste of the age had risen or sunk. 
 
 How deep, for instance, is the significance of the fact, that, as age 
 after age advances, the tombs seem to grow more and more worldly, 
 less and less religious ! They seem more and more to thrust on our 
 notice the pomposities of life, and less and less the awful stillness and 
 humiliation of death. The tombs of the Plantagenet kings and cru- 
 saders represent them lying in death, with the hands clasped in prayer 
 across the breast. 
 
 But, as time advances, the effigies gradually rise to their knees, then 
 to their feet. Then they deal in stately or impassioned gesticulation, 
 like Pitt and Chatham. At last, they seem to have lost the last touch 
 of awful reverence, and like Wilberforce, with a broad smile upon their 
 lips, they loll in marble upon their easy-chairs ! 
 
 Apart from the monuments, there are, in the nave, several graves 
 and cenotaphs of deep interest. By the west door is the modest mar- 
 ble slab which records how Jeremiah Horrox, though he died as a 
 humble curate at the age of twenty-two, was the first to rectify Kep- 
 ler's theory of the motion of the moon, and to show that it might be 
 represented as "an elliptic orbit with a variable eccentricity, and an 
 oscillatory motion on the line of the apsides." He was also the first 
 to observe a transit of Venus, which he succeeded in doing on Dec. 4, 
 1639, between two of the three religious services for which he was on 
 that day responsible. 
 
 There is, close by, the bust of Zachary Macaulay, the father of 
 Lord Macaulay, and the great opponent of the slave-trade. The in- 
 scription — written by Sir James Stephen — is well worth reading for 
 the beauty and eloquence of the language. There is the grave of John 
 Hunter, the great anatomist. Close by this is the simple rectangu- 
 lar slab under which Ben Jonson was buried upright, having asked 
 Charles I. for eighteen square inches of ground in Westminster Abbey. 
 On this stone was carved the quaint and striking epitaph, " O rare 
 Ben Jonson," which, only the accidental expression of a passer-by, was 
 afterwards copied upon his bust in "Poet's Corner."
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 23 
 
 Near the centre of the nave a slab records that the grave beneath 
 was the resting-place, for some months, of the body of George Pea- 
 body ; and on this slab are carved the words of his early prayer, that, 
 if God prospered him, He would enable him to render some memorial 
 service to his fellow-men. 
 
 A little farther on is the grave of Livingstone, which records the 
 last pathetic words found in his diary : " All I can add in my loneli- 
 ness, is, May Heaven's rich blessing come down on every one, Ameri- 
 can, English, or Turk, who will help to heal this open sore of the 
 world," — the slave-trade. 
 
 There are, however, two monuments to which I must lead you 
 before I conclude. One is the monument to Sir Isaac Newton, close 
 beside whose grave were laid the mortal remains of Charles Darwin. 
 
 The tomb of Newton is well worth your notice, from its intrinsic 
 beauty, as well as from the fact that it is placed above the last resting- 
 place of one of the greatest of Englishmen. The monument is by 
 Rysbraeck. Over it is a celestial globe, on which is marked the course 
 of the comet of 1680. Leaning on this is the figure of Astronomy, 
 who has closed her book as though, for the time, her labors were over. 
 
 The very ingenious bas-relief below expresses in allegory the 
 various spheres of Newton's labors. At the right, three lovely little 
 genii are minting money, to indicate Newton's services to the currency ; 
 near them, a boy looking through a prism symbolizes the discoveries 
 of Newton respecting the laws of light; a fifth — who (like other 
 geniuses) has at present unhappily lost his head — is weighing the sun 
 on a steelyard against Mercury, Mars, Venus, the Earth, Jupiter, and 
 Saturn, which very strikingly shadows forth the discovery of the laws 
 of gravitation ; at the extreme left, two other genii reverently tend an 
 aloe, the emblem of immortal fame. Over the bas-relief reclines the 
 fine statue of the great discoverer, whose elbow leans on four volumes 
 of Divinity, Optics, and Astronomy and Mathematics. 
 
 There is one more monument in the nave, at which Americans will 
 look with special interest. It is the tomb of the gallant and ill-fated 
 Andre. Every American knows how he was arrested in disguise 
 within the American lines in 1780, and, for a moment, lost his pres- 
 ence of mind, and neglected to produce the safe conduct of the traitor, 
 Benedict Arnold. He was sentenced to be hung as a spy ; and in 
 spite of the deep sympathy which his fate excited, even among the 
 Americans, Washington did not think himself justified in relaxing the 
 sentence.
 
 24 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 The touching bas-relief represents, on one side, a British officer, 
 who is carrying a flag of truce and a letter to the tent of Gen. 
 Washington, with the entreaty of Andre, that, as a soldier, he might 
 be shot, and not hung. One of the American officers is weeping. 
 
 The request was refused ; but, as it would have been too painful 
 to represent Andre's death on the gibbet, the sculptor has represented 
 his youthful and handsome figure standing at the right of the bas- 
 relief before a platoon of soldiers, as though his petition had in reality 
 been granted. The sculptor, Van Gelder, has been very successful ; 
 but the heads of Washington and Andre have several times been 
 knocked off and stolen by base and sacrilegious hands. 
 
 The American visitor will gaze on the tomb with still deeper inter- 
 est when he is told that the wreath of richly colored autumn leaves on 
 the marble above was brought from the site where Andrews gibbet stood, 
 and placed where it now is by the hands of Arthur Stanley, late Dean 
 of Westminster.
 
 A MORNING WITH 
 
 DR. FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND, 1 
 
 NATURALIST. 
 
 By WILLIAM H. RIDEING. 
 
 IN Albany Street, near the borders of Regent's Park, London, is a 
 modest little house, which is like the houses on both sides and 
 across the way, except that, at the windows and in the balcony, there 
 are a number of cages, the occupants of which twitter and whistle in 
 a chorus that attracts the most hurried passer-by. The noisiest of the 
 birds is a parrot, with great glibness of speech and a spectral laugh. 
 
 " Hold hard ! I say, hold hard there ! " screams Polly to the pass- 
 ing omnibus ; and, should she succeed in bringing it up, her feathers 
 shake with convulsive merriment. 
 
 She is fluent, also, in the language of the drivers, and growls out, 
 " Whoa, back ! " or, " Come up ! " in so natural a way, that the most 
 intelligent of horses would be excusable for taking it to be the voice 
 of his master. 
 
 There is usually in front of the house a crowd of children, who are 
 very much interested in the basement-window. Sometimes it is a 
 man painting the cast of a fish that they see, sometimes a gigantic 
 fossil skull, and sometimes rows of bottles filled with clammy speci- 
 mens of natural history. Nothing less than the Zoological Gardens, 
 which are in the neighborhood, satisfies them as well as this basement- 
 window. 
 
 The door-plate has a name upon it with which every reader of Eng- 
 lish is acquainted, — Mr. Frank Buckland ; and this is the home of the 
 most popular expositor of natural history in the world. It is not diffi- 
 
 1 Since this article was written, Mr. Buckland has died.
 
 26 DR. FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCK LAND. 
 
 cult to account for his popularity. Many naturalists have studied the 
 habits and structure of animals with no less care and scientific judg- 
 ment than he has ; but, above his other qualifications, he has brought 
 to his occupation a sympathetic insight of the feelings of dumb crea- 
 tures, and has interpreted their thoughts, desires, and emotions with 
 wonderful understanding. 
 
 He has established confidential relations with monkeys, and has 
 learned the aspirations and disappointments of the beasts of the field. 
 When he writes about one of the creatures whose acquaintance he has 
 made, it seems to be a revelation of private life ; and the sympathy 
 which he shows awakens similar feelings in us. The monkey is no 
 longer a speechless brute. It becomes, through Mr. Buckland's inter- 
 pretation, a genial and intelligent fellow-being. He has done more 
 than any one else to make the animal world intelligible to man, and 
 yet he is a resolute opponent of the Darwinian theory. 
 
 " It is a great fallacy, sir," he said to us one morning, when we 
 happened to be at the little house in Albany Street. " I've lived all 
 my life with monkeys about me, and have loved them, and watched 
 them, and admired their cleverness. But, when the very lowest of the 
 human race is placed alive and in good health alongside the very high- 
 est of the monkey family, it will be immediately perceived that there 
 is a vast gulf between the two which has never been bridged over." 
 
 He is a son of Dean Stanley's predecessor at Westminster, and was 
 educated at Winchester School and Oxford University. For some time 
 he served as surgeon in the Second Life-Guards, and he is now the 
 government inspector of fisheries. The latter is, at least, one of his 
 positions ; and, in addition to this, he is editor of " Land and Water," 
 and an active worker of the Zoological Society. 
 
 While we were with him, he received a letter from the Home Sec- 
 retary, instructing him to attend to some business at the Billingsgate 
 Market in his capacity of inspector of fisheries ; another, complaining 
 that no whitebait could be had for a forthcoming ministerial dinner at 
 Greenwich ; another, begging him to come to the relief of a lion which 
 had hurt its foot ; and a fourth, demanding "copy " for his paper. Al- 
 though he is an invalid, he crowds the work of several men into his 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Buckland is a thick-set gentleman of medium height ; courte- 
 ous, but nervous in manner ; humorous in his way of looking at things, 
 and fifty-four years of age. He was born at Christ Church, Oxford, 
 inheriting a taste for natural history and scientific investigation from
 
 DR. FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND. 27 
 
 his parents. In a portrait of him, at the age of three, he is hugging a 
 rabbit ; and an old-fashioned silhouette, over his study mantel-piece, 
 represents him as a chubby little fellow in petticoats, sitting astraddle 
 of an elephant's trunk under a table, while his father and mother are 
 poring over some specimens above. 
 
 From the basement, with peeps of which the children in the street 
 amuse themselves, to the upper stories, the little house abounds with 
 curiosities, which are distributed through most of the rooms. But the 
 greatest number are in Mr. Buckland's sanctum, on the second floor, 
 where the walls are completely hidden under the treasures hanging 
 from them, and every shelf is loaded with articles of interest. 
 
 At a desk, piled with correspondence, books, and newspaper clip- 
 pings, is a spacious arm-chair made out of the bedstead of John Hunter, 
 the famous surgeon. There are savage weapons, the boots of a giant, 
 the skull of a gorilla, the jaws of a fish, the head of a bear, the poi- 
 soned arrows of the South-American Indians, and scores of glass jars 
 containing fish and reptiles in pickle. 
 
 It would not be a desirable place for an imaginative boy to fall asleep 
 in, unless his courage would sustain him in dreamed-of encounters with 
 panthers and crocodiles. In all corners, there is something to feed the 
 imagination, — something to remind us of the wonders of wild nature, 
 except where the books are ; and those are mostly about animal life. 
 
 Mr. Buckland said to us, " If I wished a boy to learn natural his- 
 tory, I would dispense with books as far as possible, and would send 
 him into the forest, and let him collect specimens. Then I would give 
 him a dissecting-knife, and tell him to observe for himself." 
 
 We are quite sure that all boys would appreciate the excellence 
 of this method, and vastly prefer it to any other ; but the variety and 
 extent of Mr. Buckland's library are proofs that he would be misunder- 
 stood if it were supposed, that, though valuing observation, he does 
 not recognize books as being necessary to the perfection of all knowl- 
 edge. He is an industrious note-taker, and scatters pencils about his 
 study, that one may always be at hand when he has a thought to jot 
 down, or a fact to record. As he exhibits his specimens, he becomes 
 rapturous. "Isn't that a beauty?" he demands, showing us some 
 monstrosity, and handling it with the greatest affection ; and, though 
 it may strike us as being decidedly unpleasant to look at, it is only 
 kind in us to murmur some word of responsive admiration. 
 
 Besides the birds, Mr. Buckland's living pets are three monkeys, 
 which are intelligent beyond their kind, and are allowed privileges
 
 28 
 
 DR. FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND. 
 
 which other monkeys might well envy. Tiny the Third and Margate 
 Jack occupy a cage together, and are the best of friends ; while Jam- 
 rach, who is named after the celebrated dealer in wild beasts, has a 
 house of his own, and is conscious of a greater importance. 
 
 Jamrach's career has been eventful. He was a sacred monkey in 
 India, and allowed to swing his tail around the pinnacles of temples, 
 
 and to caper in the groves, unmolested. 
 But an evil day came for him when he 
 was kidnapped, and sold into the misera- 
 ble bondage of an organ-grinder. The 
 spicy breezes and the shadowy quiet of 
 the groves were forever lost to him. 
 The dull routine of his life 
 was to turn idiotic somersets 
 in petticoats and a turban, 
 and to solicit pen- 
 nies from the public 
 with insincere gri- 
 maces. One lucky 
 day, however, .Mr. 
 Buckland saw him, 
 IN and bought him ; 
 and, since then, his 
 lot has been as hap- 
 py as it could possi- 
 bly be in captivity. 
 
 Jamrach has a 
 queer, smooth, old- 
 fashioned face, and 
 is not as good-looking as either 
 Tiny or Margate Jack. But he 
 is fond of his master, and fa- 
 miliar with visitors, and is the 
 favorite of the three. Having crawled up into our lap, and made 
 acquaintance with us, he passed over our shoulders to Mr. Buckland, 
 and sat contentedly on that gentleman's knee while his hair was care- 
 fully parted and combed. But Jamrach is a great glutton and a thief, 
 and is much too fond of beer. 
 
 Mr. Buckland took us into the basement, which is his workshop, 
 where casts are made, and the dissecting and stuffing are done.
 
 DR. FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND. 29 
 
 " Look at that : isn't it a shame ! " he said, taking up some fine trout 
 which had been killed by the pollution of their native river ; and his 
 voice trembled with pity. 
 
 Here, also, were baskets of seaweed, and tubs and jars containing 
 all sorts of specimens, some of which saluted our nostrils in a way 
 that made a smouldering piece of brown paper a gratifying relief. 
 
 When we went up-stairs again, we found Jamrach sitting by a half- 
 finished glass of beer, and hurriedly scooping it into his mouth with 
 the hollow of his hand. As soon as he saw us, he made off, conscious 
 of his iniquity, and seized an apple from the table as he retreated. A 
 shilling, which had been left on the table, was missing also ; and, when 
 Jamrach was captured, it was found secreted in his pouch, out of which 
 he was forced to disgorge it. 
 
 No money can be safely left near him : but Mr. Buckland is forget- 
 ful, and leaves his change about ; and Mrs. Buckland compounds Jam- 
 rach's felony by adding what he steals to her pin-money. 
 
 When he is particularly misbehaved, a bear's head, or an eel, which 
 he takes to be a snake, is shown to him ; and he screams out with peni- 
 tence and fear. The same objects also excite the greatest terror in 
 Tiny and Margate Jack ; and, whenever they are produced, there is 
 such a commotion that the loquacious parrot loses its temper, and 
 remonstrates in unmeasured language. But the family in Albany 
 Street is usually very happy.
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN 
 
 By MAMIE DICKENS, 
 
 HIS DAUGHTER. 
 I. 
 
 I HAVE been asked to write on the subject of "The Child Friend- 
 ships of Charles Dickens." But we have no record of any very 
 early friendships, and I know nothing more of his childhood days than 
 what Mr. Forster has told us. He was a very little, and a very sickly, 
 boy ; but he had always the belief that this early sickness had brought 
 to himself one inestimable advantage, in the circumstance of his weak 
 health having strongly inclined him to reading. But he was of a most 
 affectionate and genial disposition ; and there can be little doubt, that, 
 with such a nature, he must have made many friendships. 
 
 When money-troubles came upon his parents, the poor little fellow 
 was taken away from school, and kept for some time to an occupation 
 most distasteful to him, with every surrounding jarring on his sensitive 
 and refined feelings. But the great hardship, and the one which he 
 felt most acutely, was the want of the companionship of boys of his 
 own age. A few years later on, we read, in Mr. Forster's Life, a 
 school-fellow's description of Charles Dickens: — 
 
 " A healthy-looking boy, small, but well-built, with a more than 
 usual flow of spirits, inclining to harmless fun, seldom or never, I 
 think, to mischief. He usually held his head more erect than lads 
 ordinarily do, and there was a general smartness about him." 
 
 This is also a very good description of the man. 
 
 I have never heard him refer, in any way, to his own childish days, 
 
 excepting in one instance, — when he had been telling the story of 
 
 how, when he lived at Chatham, he and his father often passed Gad's 
 
 Hill in their walks, and what an admiration he had for the red brick 
 
 30
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 3 1 
 
 house, with its beautiful old cedar-trees, and how it seemed to him to 
 be larger and finer than any other house ; and that his father would 
 tell him, that if he were to be very persevering, and were to work 
 hard, he might perhaps some day come to live in it. 
 
 I have heard him tell this story over and over again, when he had 
 indeed become the possessor of the place which had taken such a hold 
 upon his childish affections. 
 
 Beyond this, I cannot recall a single instance of any allusion being 
 made by him to his early childhood. I am unable, therefore, to write 
 any thing new on this score. 
 
 But I will try and write down a few reminiscences of my own, feel- 
 ing that they will be read with interest, believing, as I do, that in no 
 country are his writings more widely known, or his name more affec- 
 tionately reverenced, than in the great country of America. 
 
 Charles Dickens believed the power of observation in numbers of 
 very young children to be quite wonderful for its closeness and accu- 
 racy, and he thought that the recollection of most of us could go 
 farther back than many of us suppose. I do not know how far my own 
 memory may carry me back, but I have no remembrance of my child- 
 hood which is not immediately associated with him. 
 
 He had a wonderful sympathy with children, and a wonderfully 
 quick perception of their character and disposition ; a most winning 
 and easy way with them, full of fun, but full, also, of a graver sym- 
 pathy with their many small troubles and perplexities, which made 
 them recognize at once a friend in him. 
 
 I have often seen mere babies, who would look at no other stranger 
 present, put out their tiny arms to him with unbounded confidence, or 
 place a small hand in his, and trot away with him, quite proud and 
 contented at having found such a companion. And, although with his 
 own children he had sometimes a sterner manner than he had with 
 others, there was not one of them who feared to go to him for help and 
 advice, knowing well that there was no trouble too small or too trivial 
 to claim his attention, and that, in him, they would always find unvary- 
 ing justice and love. 
 
 If any treat had to be asked for, the second little daughter, always 
 a pet of her father's, was pushed into his study by the other children, 
 and always returned triumphant. 
 
 He wrote special prayers for them as soon as they could speak, 
 interested himself in their lessons, would give prizes for industry, for 
 punctuality, for neat and unblotted copy-books. A word of commen-
 
 32 
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 dation from him was indeed most highly cherished, and would set our 
 hearts glowing with pride and pleasure. 
 
 His study — to these children — was rather a mysterious and awe- 
 inspiring chamber ; and, while he was at work, nobody was allowed to 
 enter it. The little ones had to pass the door as quietly as possible, and 
 
 the little tongues left off 
 7\ chattering. But at no 
 time through his busy 
 life was he ever too 
 busy to think of them, 
 to amuse them, or to 
 interest himself in all 
 that concerned them. 
 
 Ever since I can 
 
 remember any thing, 
 
 I remember him as 
 
 the good genius of 
 
 the house, and as the 
 
 happy, bright, 
 
 and funny 
 
 Charles Dickens with his Children. 
 
 genius. He had a peculiar tone of voice and way of speaking for each 
 of the children, who could tell, without being called by name, which 
 was the one addressed. 
 
 He had funny songs which he used to sing to them before they 
 went to bed. One in particular, about an old man who caught cold 
 and rheumatism while riding in an omnibus, was a great favorite ; 
 and as it was accompanied by sneezes, coughs, and funny gesticula-
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 33 
 
 tions, it had to be sung over and over again before the small audience 
 was satisfied. 
 
 I can see him now, through the mist of years, with a child nearly 
 always on his knee, his bright and beautiful eyes full of life and fun. 
 I can hear his clear and sweet voice, as he sang to those children, as if 
 he had no other occupation in the world but to amuse them. And when 
 they grew older, and were able to act little plays, it was the father him- 
 self who was teacher, manager, prompter, to these infantine amateurs. 
 
 And these theatricals were undertaken as earnestly and seriously 
 as were those of the grown-up people. He would teach the children 
 their parts separately, — teach them what to do, and how to do it, act- 
 ing himself for their edification. At one moment he would be the 
 dragon in " Fortunio ; " at the next, one of the seven servants ; then 
 taking the part of a jockey, played by the youngest child, a mere baby, 
 whose little legs had much difficulty to get into the top-boots, — until he 
 had taken every part in the play. And, before these children were old 
 enough to act regular pieces, the same pains were taken about any 
 little charade they might ask for, any song they were taught to sing ; 
 each child knowing well that such pains had to be taken before his 
 approval could be won. 
 
 As with his grown-up company of actors, so with his juvenile com- 
 pany did his own earnestness and activity work upon them, and affect 
 each personally. The shyest and most awkward child would come out 
 quite brilliantly under his patient and always encouraging training. 
 
 Then, again, at the juvenile parties he was always the ruling spirit. 
 He had acquired, by degrees, an excellent collection of conjuring-tricks ; 
 and on Twelfth Nights, — the eldest son's birthday, — he would very 
 often, dressed as a magician, give a conjuring entertainment, when a 
 little figure, which appeared from a wonderful and mysterious bag, and 
 which was supposed to be a personal friend of the conjurer, would 
 greatly delight the audience by his funny stories, his eccentric voice 
 and way of speaking, and by his miraculous appearances and dis- 
 appearances. 
 
 Of course, a plum-pudding was made in a hat, and was always one 
 of the great successes of the evening. It would be almost impossible, 
 even to guess how many such puddings have been made since. But 
 surely, those made by Charles Dickens must have possessed some 
 special fairy -power, no other conjurer being able to put into his pud- 
 ding all the love, sympathy, fun, and thorough enjoyment which seemed 
 to come from the very hands of this great magician !
 
 34 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 Then, when supper-time came, he would be everywhere at once, — 
 carving, cutting the great Twelfth Cake, dispensing the bonbons, pro- 
 posing toasts, and calling upon first one child, and then upon another, 
 for a song or recitation. How eager the little faces looked for each 
 turn to come round, and how they would blush and brighten up when 
 the magician's eyes looked their way ! 
 
 One year, before a Twelfth-Night dance, when the two daughters 
 were quite tiny girls, he took it into his head that they must teach him 
 and his friend (the late Mr. John Leach of " Punch ") the polka. The 
 lessons were begun, and continued for some time. It must have been 
 rather a funny sight to see those two small children teaching these two 
 men — Mr. Leach was over six feet — to dance, all four as solemn and 
 staid as possible. 
 
 As in every thing he undertook, so, in this instance, did Charles 
 Dickens throw his whole heart into the dance. No one could have 
 taken more pains than he did, or have been more eager and anxious, or 
 more conscientious about steps and time, than he was. And often, 
 when the lesson was going on, he would jump up, and have a little 
 practice by himself. When the night of the party came, both the 
 small dancing-mistresses must have felt a little anxious. 
 
 I know that the heart of one beat very fast when the moment for 
 starting off arrived. But both pupils acquitted themselves perfectly, 
 and were the admiration of all beholders. 
 
 Sir Roger de Coverley was always the finale to these dances, and 
 was a special favorite of Charles Dickens, who kept it up as long as 
 was possible, and was as unflagging in his dancing and enthusiasm 
 as was dear old " Fizziwig " in his. There can be but little doubt that 
 the children who came to those parties, and who have lived to grow up 
 to be men and women, must still remember them as something bright 
 and sunny in their young lives, and must always retain a grateful and 
 loving feeling for their kind and genial host. 
 
 II. 
 
 In these days, when Charles Dickens was living at Devonshire 
 Terrace, the children were quite babies. And when he paid his first 
 visit to America, accompanied by Mrs. Dickens, they were left under 
 the care of some relations and friends. Any one reading " The Letters 
 of Charles Dickens " must be touched by his frequent allusions to these
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 35 
 
 children, and by the love and tenderness expressed in his longings to 
 see them again. 
 
 I have a vague remembrance of the return of the travellers, and of 
 being lifted up to a gate, and kissing my father through the bars. I 
 cannot at all recall his appearance at this time, but know, from old 
 portraits, that his face was beautiful. I think he was fond of dress, 
 and must have been rather a dandy in his way. 
 
 Carrying my memory farther on, I can remember him as very hand- 
 some. He had a most beautiful mouth, sensitive, strong, and full of 
 character. This was, unfortunately, hidden when he took to wearing 
 — some years afterwards — a beard and mustache. But this is the 
 only change I can remember in him, as to me his face never seemed 
 to change at all. He had always an active, young, and boyish-looking 
 figure, and a way of holding his head, a little thrown back, which was 
 very characteristic. 
 
 Charles Dickens was always a great walker ; but, in these days, he 
 rode and drove more than he did in later years. As the children grew 
 older, there were evenings when they would be allowed to drive out 
 into the country, and then get out of the carriage, and walk with 
 "papa." It seems now as if the wild-flowers, which used to be gath- 
 ered on those evenings in the pretty country lanes, were sweeter and 
 more beautiful than any which grow nowadays. 
 
 Charles Dickens brought a little white Havana spaniel with him 
 from America ; and, from that time, there were always various pets 
 about the house. Perhaps, though, you wouldn't call either an eagle 
 or a raven a pet ? The eagle had a sort of grotto made for him in the 
 garden, to which he was chained ; and, being chained, he was not quite 
 such an object of terror to the children as the raven was. But this 
 raven, with his mischievous nature, delighted in frightening them, and 
 even in hurting them. One of the little daughters had very chubby, 
 rosy legs ; and the raven used to run after, and peck at them, until 
 poor "Tatie's leds " became a constant subject for commiseration ; and 
 she would show her father fresh pecks and scratches many times in 
 a day. 
 
 The raven was especially wicked to the eagle ; for he would swoop 
 down upon the food brought to the eagle, take it just beyond reach, 
 and mount guard over it, dancing round it, and chuckling. When he 
 considered that he had tantalized the poor bird enough, he would eat 
 the food as deliberately and slowly as possible, and then hop away per- 
 fectly contented with himself. He was not the celebrated "Grip" of
 
 36 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 " Barnaby Rudge," but was given, after the death of that bird, to my 
 father. 
 
 In bringing up his children, Charles Dickens was always most anx- 
 ious to impress upon them, that, so long as they were honest and 
 truthful, so would they always be sure of having justice done to them. 
 
 He was always, as has been observed before, tender with them in 
 their small troubles and trials. When the time came for the eldest 
 son to be sent to a boarding-school, there was great grief in the nur- 
 sery at Devonshire Terrace ; and Charles Dickens came unexpectedly 
 upon one of his daughters who was putting away some school-books, 
 and crying bitterly all the time. To him the separation could not 
 have seemed such a terrible one ; as the boy was certainly to come home 
 once a month, if not once a week. But he soothed the weeping child, 
 and reasoned with her, until, at last, the sobs ceased, and the poor, 
 aching little heart had found consolation in the loving sympathy which 
 could enter so readily into the feelings of a child. 
 
 A third daughter was born in Devonshire Terrace, but only lived 
 to be nine months old. Her death was very sudden, and happened 
 while Charles Dickens was presiding at a public dinner. He had been 
 playing with the baby before starting for the dinner, and the little 
 thing was then as well and as bright as possible. 
 
 An evening or two after her death, some beautiful flowers were 
 sent, and were brought into the study ; and the father was about to 
 take them up-stairs, and place them on the little dead baby, when he 
 suddenly gave way completely. It is always very terrible to see a 
 man weep ; but to see your own father weep, and to see this for the 
 first time as a child, is agonizing, but also fills you with a curious 
 wonder. 
 
 When the move was made from Devonshire Terrace to Tavistock 
 House, — a far larger and handsomer house than the old home, — 
 Charles Dickens promised his daughters a better bedroom than they 
 had ever had before, and told them that he should choose " the bright- 
 est of papers for it." But they were not to see "the gorgeous apart- 
 ment " until it was ready for their use. When the time came for the 
 move, and the two girls were shown their room, it surpassed even their 
 expectations. 
 
 They found it full of love and thoughtful care, and as pretty and 
 as fresh as their hearts could desire, and with not a single thing in it 
 which had not been expressly chosen for them, or planned, by their 
 father. The wall-paper was covered with wild-flowers : the two little
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 37 
 
 iron bedsteads were hung with a flowery chintz. There were two 
 toilet-tables, two writing-tables, two easy-chairs, etc., all so pretty and 
 elegant, and all this in the days when bedrooms were not, as a rule, so 
 luxurious as they are now. 
 
 With his many occupations, with his constant and arduous work, 
 Charles Dickens was never too busy to be unmindful of the comfort 
 and welfare of those about him ; and there was not a corner, in any of 
 his homes, from kitchen to garret, which was not constantly inspected 
 by him, and which did not boast of some of his neat and orderly con- 
 trivances. We used to laugh at him sometimes, and say we believed 
 that he was personally acquainted with every nail in the house. 
 
 It was in this home, some few years later, that the first grown-up 
 theatricals were given ; and these theatricals were very remarkable, in 
 that nearly every part was filled by some man celebrated in either 
 literature or art. Besides being a really great actor, Charles Dickens, 
 as a manager, was quite incomparable. His " Company " was as well 
 trained as any first-class professional company ; and, although so kind 
 and so pleasant a manager, he was properly feared and looked up to 
 by every member of his company. 
 
 The rehearsals meant business and hard work, and sometimes even 
 tears to a few, when all did not go quite satisfactorily ; and each one 
 knew that there could be no trifling, no playing at work. And as in 
 the children's performances, so in these later ones, did Charles Dickens 
 know every part, and enter heart and soul into each character. When 
 any new idea as to any part would come into his head, he would at once 
 propound it to the actor or actress, who, looking upon the earnest face 
 and active figure, would do his or her very best to gain a managerial 
 smile of approval. 
 
 Charles Dickens had a temporary theatre built out into the garden, 
 and the scenes were painted by some of the greatest scene-painters of 
 the day. A drop-scene, representing Eddystone Lighthouse, painted 
 for this theatre by the late Clarkson Stanfield, R.A., was afterwards 
 framed, and covered with glass, and hung in the entrance-hall at Gad's 
 Hill. 
 
 In the play called "The Lighthouse," written by Mr. Wilkie Col- 
 lins, — one of the best and most intimate of the friends of Charles 
 Dickens, — the great effect at the end of an act was to come from a 
 storm ; and the rehearsing of this storm was a very serious matter 
 indeed. There was a long wooden box with pease in it, to be moved 
 slowly up and down, to represent rain ; a wheel to be turned for wind ;
 
 38 
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 a piece of oil-cloth to be dashed upon oil-cloth, and slowly dragged away, 
 for the waves coming up and then receding, carrying the pebbles along 
 with them ; a heavy weight rolled about upon the floor above the stage 
 for thunder. 
 
 At the time of the storm, the manager's part kept him on the stage : 
 but, during rehearsal, he somehow or \ 
 other managed to be in the hall, — 
 where the storm was worked, — as 
 well as on the stage ; for he sometimes 
 
 The Rehearsal. 
 
 appeared as the rain, sometimes the wind, first one part of the storm, 
 and then another, until he had seen each separate part made perfect : 
 and this storm was pronounced by the audience a most wonderful suc- 
 cess. I know there was such a noise "behind the scenes," that we 
 could not hear ourselves speak ; and it was most amusing to watch all 
 the actors, in their sailor-dresses, and their various "make-ups," gravely 
 and solemnly pounding away at the storm.
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 39 
 
 Then the suppers, after these evenings, were so merry and so de- 
 lightful ! Many and many of the company, besides the dear " man- 
 ager," have passed away ; but many still remain to remember these 
 evenings with pleasure, although the pleasure may be mixed with pain. 
 
 III. 
 
 Until Charles Dickens came into possession of Gad's Hill, he was 
 in the habit of removing his household to some seaside place every 
 summer. For many years, Broadstairs was the favorite spot ; and, for 
 some reasons, he rented a house there called Fort House. Since those 
 days, the name of it has been changed to Bleak House. 
 
 After Broadstairs, Boulogne became a very favorite watering-place 
 with Charles Dickens. It was here, in a charming villa quite out of 
 the town, that he and his youngest son, "The Plorn," would wander 
 about the garden together, admiring the flowers ; the little fellow being 
 taught to show his admiration by holding up his tiny arms. There 
 were always anecdotes to be told about "The Plorn " after these walks, 
 when his father invariably wound up with the assertion that he was 
 "a noble boy." Being the youngest of the family, he was made a 
 great pet of, especially by his father, and was kept longer at home than 
 any of his brothers had been. 
 
 When he had to part with this son in 1868, the housekeeper at the 
 office of Charles Dickens, who saw him after he had taken leave of 
 the boy, told "how she had never seen the master so upset ; and that, 
 when she asked him how Mr. Edward went off, he burst into tears, 
 and couldn't answer her a word." 
 
 During the years spent at Tavistock House, one of his daughters 
 was for a time a great invalid ; and, after a worse attack of illness than 
 usual, he suggested that she should be carried as far as his study, and 
 lie on the sofa there while he was at work. This was, of course, con- 
 sidered an immense privilege ; and, even if she had not felt as weak 
 and ill as she did, she would have been bound to remain as still and 
 quiet as possible. 
 
 For some time, there was no sound to be heard in the room but the 
 rapid working of the pen. Then, suddenly, Mr. Dickens jumped up, 
 went to the looking-glass, rushed back to his writing-table, and jotted 
 down a few words ; back to the glass again, this time talking to his 
 own reflection, or, rather, to the simulated expression he saw there,
 
 40 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 and was trying to catch before drawing it in words ; then back again 
 to his writing. After a little, he got up again, and stood with his 
 back to the glass, talking softly and rapidly for a long time, after look- 
 ing at his daughter, but certainly never seeing her; then once more 
 went back to his table, and to steady writing until luncheon-time. It 
 was a curious experience, and a wonderful thing to see him throwing 
 himself so entirely out of himself, and into the character he was writing 
 about. 
 
 His daughter has very seldom mentioned this incident, feeling as 
 if it would be almost a breach of confidence to do so. But, in these 
 reminiscences of her father, she considers it is only right that this 
 experience should be mentioned, showing, as it does, his characteristic 
 earnestness, and his power of throwing himself completely and entirely 
 into the work on which he was engaged. 
 
 For the last ten years of his life, his great delight was to make 
 "the little Freehold," as he called his new Gad's-Hill estate, as com- 
 plete and pretty as possible. Every year he had some " bright idea," 
 or some contemplated "wonderful improvement," to propound to us. 
 These additions and alterations gave him endless amusement and 
 delight, and he would watch the growing of each one with the utmost 
 eagerness and impatience. 
 
 The most important outdoor " improvement " he made, was a tun- 
 nel to connect the garden with the shrubbery which lay on the opposite 
 side of the high-road, and could be approached only by leaving the 
 garden, crossing the road, and unlocking a gate. The work of excava- 
 tion began, of course, from each side ; and on the day when it was 
 supposed that the picks would meet, and the light appear, Charles 
 Dickens was so excited that he had to " knock off work," and stood 
 for hours and hours waiting for this consummation. When, at last, it 
 did come to pass, the workmen were all "treated," and there was a 
 general jubilee at Gad's Hill. 
 
 When, some little time after, Monsieur Fechter sent his friend a 
 two-roomed clidlct, it was placed in the shrubbery. The upper room 
 was prettily furnished, and fitted all round with looking-glasses, to 
 reflect the view, which was beautiful, and was used by Charles Dickens 
 as a study throughout the summer. 
 
 He had a passion for light, bright colors, and looking-glasses. When 
 he built a new drawing-room, he had two looking-glasses sunk into the 
 wall, opposite each other, which, being so placed, gave the effect of an 
 endless corridor, as it were. I do not remember how many rooms
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 41 
 
 could thus be counted ; but he would often call some of us, and ask if 
 we could make out another, as he certainly could. For one " improve- 
 ment," he had looking-glass put into each panel of the dining-room 
 door, and, showing it to his youngest daughter, said, with great 
 pride, — 
 
 " Now, what do you say to this, Katie ? " 
 
 She laughed, and said, "Well, really, papa, I think, when you're 
 an angel, your wings will certainly be made of looking-glass, and your 
 crown of scarlet geraniums." 
 
 He loved all flowers, but especially bright flowers ; and scarlet 
 geraniums were his favorite of all. There were two large beds of 
 these on the front lawn at Gad's Hill ; and when they were fully out, 
 making one scarlet mass, there was blaze enough to satisfy even his 
 love for bright colors. Even in dress he was fond of a great deal of 
 color ; and the dress of a friend, who came to his daughter's wedding, 
 quite delighted him, because it was trimmed with a profusion of cherry- 
 colored ribbon. 
 
 The large dogs at Gad's Hill were quite a feature of the place, and 
 were also rather a subject of dread to many outsiders. But this was 
 desirable ; as the house really required protection, standing, as it did, on 
 the high-road, which was frequented by tramps of a wild and low order, 
 who, in the hopping-season, were sometimes even dangerous. And the 
 dogs, though as gentle as possible to their own people, knew that they 
 were the guardians of the place, and were terribly fierce to all intruders. 
 
 Linda, a St. Bernard, and a beautiful specimen of that breed, had 
 been, as a puppy, living in the garden at Tavistock House before she 
 was taken to Gad's Hill. She and Turk — a mastiff — were the con- 
 stant companions in all their master's walks. When he was away from 
 home, and the ladies of the family were out alone with the dogs, Turk 
 at once felt the responsibility of his position, and would guard them 
 with unusual devotion, giving up all play in an instant when he saw 
 any suspicious-looking figure approaching. He never made a mistake 
 in discovering the tramp. He would then keep on the outside of the 
 road, close to his mistresses, with an ominous turning up of the lip, 
 and with any thing but the usual mild expression in his beautiful large 
 brown eyes. 
 
 But what is to be said about Mrs. Bouncer, — a little white Pome- 
 ranian, with black eyes and nose, the very sweetest and most bewitch- 
 ing of her sex ? She was a present to the eldest daughter, and was 
 brought by her — a puppy of only six weeks' old — to Tavistock House.
 
 42 
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 "The boys," knowing that the little dog was to arrive, were ready to 
 receive their sister at the door, and escorted her, in a tremendous state 
 
 of excitement, up to the study. But when 
 the little creature was put down on the 
 floor, to be exhibited to Charles Dick- 
 ens, and showed her pretty figure, 
 and little bushy tail curling tight- 
 ly over her back, "the boys" 
 could keep quiet no longer, 
 but fairly screamed and 
 danced with delight. 
 
 From this very first 
 moment, Charles Dick- 
 ens took to the little 
 dog, and made a pet of 
 her ; and it was he who 
 gave her the name of 
 Mrs. Bouncer. He de- 
 lighted to see her out 
 with the large dogs, be- 
 cause she looked " so 
 preposterously small " 
 by the side of them, and 
 gave herself such airs 
 with them. He had a pe- 
 culiar voice and way of 
 speaking for her, which 
 she knew perfectly well, 
 and would respond to at 
 once, running to him 
 from any part of the 
 house or garden directly 
 she heard the call. 
 To be stroked with a foot had great fascinations for Mrs. Bouncer ; 
 and Charles Dickens would often and often take off his boot of an 
 evening, and sit stroking the little creature — while he read or smoked 
 — for an hour together. Although there were times, I fear, when her 
 sharp bark must have irritated him, there never was an angry word for 
 Bouncer. He loved the dog, and was always greatly touched by the 
 truly wonderful devotion to her mistress. 
 
 Charles Dickens with his Dogs.
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 43 
 
 Dear, pretty, dainty, faithful little Mrs. Bouncer ! 
 
 Then, there was "Dick," the eldest daughter's canary, another most 
 important member of the household. After his mistress had been 
 away from home, she, on her return, would go to the room where Dick 
 lived, and put her head just inside the door. At the very sight of her, 
 the bird would fly to the corner of his cage, and sing as if his little 
 throat would burst. 
 
 When this pet bird died, he was buried in the garden, a rose-tree 
 was planted over his grave, and Charles Dickens wrote his epitaph : — 
 
 This is the grave of 
 
 Dick, 
 The Best of Birds. 
 Born at Broadstairs Mids'r., 185 1. 
 Died at Gad's Hill Place, 14th Oct., 1866. 
 
 While Dick lived, cats were, of course, never allowed about the house : 
 but, after his death, a white kitten, called Williamina, was given to 
 one of the family ; and she and her numerous offspring had a happy 
 home at Gad's Hill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Charles Dickens was the most delightful and genial of hosts, and 
 had the power of putting the shyest people at ease with him at once. 
 He had a charm in his manner peculiarly his own, and quite indescrib- 
 able. The charm was always there, whether he was grave or gay, 
 whether in his very funniest, or in his most serious and earnest, mood. 
 
 His punctuality was a remarkable characteristic, and visitors used 
 to wonder how it was that every thing was clone to the very minute. 
 It is a common saying now, in the family of some dear friends, where 
 punctuality is not quite so well observed, " What would Mr. Dickens 
 have said to this?" or, "Ah! my dear child, I wish you could have 
 been at Gad's Hill to learn what punctuality means ! " He was very 
 fond of music, but not of " classical " music only. He loved national 
 airs, old tunes, songs, and ballads. He was easily moved by any thing 
 pathetic in a song or tune, and was never tired of hearing his particu- 
 lar favorites sung or played. He liked to have music of an evening ; 
 and duets used to be played very often for hours together, while he 
 would read, or walk up and down the room. 
 
 There was a large meadow at the back of the garden, in which, 
 during the summer-time, many cricket-matches were held. Although
 
 44 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 never playing himself, Charles Dickens delighted in the game, and 
 would sit in his tent, keeping score for one side, the whole day long. 
 He never took to croquet ; but, had lawn-tennis been played in the 
 Gad's-Hill days, he would certainly have enjoyed this game. He liked 
 " American bowls," at which he used constantly to play with his male 
 guests. For one of his "improvements," he had turned a waste piece 
 of land into a. croquet -ground and bowling-green. 
 
 In the meadow he used also to practise many of his "readings;" 
 and any stranger passing down the lane, and seeing him gesticulating, 
 and hearing him talking, laughing, and sometimes, it may be, weeping, 
 most surely would have thought him out of his mind. The getting-up 
 of those "readings " gave him an immense amount of labor and fatigue, 
 and the sorrowful parts tried him greatly. For instance, in the read- 
 ing of " Little Dombey," it was hard work for him so to steel his heart 
 as to be able to read the death without breaking down, or displaying 
 too much emotion. He often told how much he suffered over this 
 story, and how it would have been impossible for him to go through 
 with it, had he not kept constantly before his eyes the picture of his 
 own " Plorn," alive and strong and well. 
 
 His great neatness and tidiness have already been alluded to, as 
 also his wonderful sense of order. The first thing he did every morn- 
 ing, before going to work, was to make a circuit of the garden, and 
 then to go over the whole house, to see that every thing was in its 
 place, neat and orderly. This was also the first thing he did upon his 
 return home after any absence. A more thoroughly orderly nature 
 never existed. It must have been through this gift of order that he 
 was enabled to make time, notwithstanding any amount of work, to 
 give to the minutest household details. 
 
 Before a dinner-party, the menu was always submitted to him for 
 approval ; and he always made a neat little plan of the table, with the 
 names of the guests marked in their respective places, and a list of 
 who was to take who in to dinner. He had constantly some " bright 
 idea" or other as to the arrangement of the table or rooms. 
 
 He had a strange aversion to saying good-by, and would do any 
 thing he possibly could to avoid going through the ordeal. This feel- 
 ing must have been natural to him ; for, as early as the " Old Curios- 
 ity Shop," he writes, — 
 
 '• Why is it we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and, while we have 
 the fortitude to act farewell, have not the nerve to say it? On the eve of long voy- 
 ages, or an absence of many years, friends, who are tenderly attached, will separate
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 45 
 
 with the usual look, the usual pressure of the hand, planning one final interview for 
 the morrow, while each well knows that it is but a poor feint to save the pain of 
 uttering that one word, and that the meeting will never be ! Should possibilities be 
 worse to bear than certainties ? " 
 
 So all who love him, and who know the painful dislike he had to 
 that word, are thankful that he was spared the agony of that last, long 
 Farewell. 
 
 Almost the pleasantest times at Gad's Hill were the winter gather- 
 ings for Christmas and the New Year, when the house was more than 
 full, and the bachelors of the party had to be "put up" in the village. 
 At these times, Charles Dickens was at his gayest and brightest ; and 
 the days passed cheerily and merrily away. He was great at games ; 
 and many of the evenings were spent in playing at " Yes and No," 
 Proverbs, Russian Scandal, Crambo, Dumb Crambo, — in which he 
 was most exquisitely funny, — and a game of Memory, which he par- 
 ticularly liked. 
 
 On New-Year's Eve, there were generally other guests besides 
 those staying in the house ; and the New Year had to be welcomed 
 with due honors. Just before twelve o'clock, everybody would assemble 
 in the hall ; and Charles Dickens would open the door, and stand in 
 the entrance, watch in hand. How many of his friends must remember 
 him thus, and think lovingly of the picture, as he waited, with a half- 
 smile on his attentive face, for the bells to chime out the New Year ! 
 
 Then his voice would break the silence with " A Happy New Year 
 to us all ! " and, for many minutes, there would be much embracing, 
 hand-shaking, and good-wishing ; and the servants also would come 
 up, and get a hearty shake of the hand from the beloved " master." 
 Then, sometimes, there would be a country-dance, in which the host 
 delighted, and in which he insisted upon every one joining. He never 
 allowed the dancing — and real dancing it was too — to flag for an 
 instant, but kept it up, until even he was tired and out of breath, 
 and had at last to clap his hands, and bring it to an end. His thorough 
 enjoyment was most charming to witness, and seemed to infect every 
 one present. 
 
 One New-Year's Day, at breakfast, he proposed that we should act 
 some charades, in dumb-show, that evening. This proposal being met 
 with enthusiasm, the idea was put into practice at once. The different 
 parts were assigned, dresses were discussed, " properties " were col- 
 lected, and rehearsing went on the whole day long. As the home- 
 visitors were all to take part in the charades, invitations had to be sent
 
 4 6 
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 
 
 to the more intimate neighbors to make an audience, an impromptu 
 supper had to be arranged for, and the day was one of continual bustle 
 and excitement, and the rehearsals were the greatest fun imaginable. 
 A dear old friend volunteered to undertake the music, and he played 
 
 Waiting far the New Year. 
 
 delightfully all through the acting. These charades made one of the 
 pleasantest and most successful of the New-Year's evenings ever spent 
 at Gad's Hill. 
 
 But there were not only grown-up guests invited to the pretty, 
 cheerful home. In a letter to a friend, Charles Dickens writes, — 
 
 " Another generation begins to peep above the table. I once used to think what 
 a horrible thing it was to be a grandfather. Finding that the calamity falls upon me 
 without my perceiving any other change in myself, I bear it like a man."
 
 DICKENS WITH HIS CHILDREN. 47 
 
 But, as he so disliked the name of grandfather as applied to him- 
 self, these grandchildren were taught by him to call him " Venerables." 
 And, to this day, some of them still speak of him by his self-invented 
 name. Now, there is another and younger family who never knew 
 "Venerables," but who are taught to know his likeness, and taught 
 to know his books through the pictures in them, as soon as they can 
 be taught any thing, and whose baby hands lay bright flowers upon 
 the stone in Westminster Abbey every 9th of June, and every Christ- 
 mas Eve. For, in remembrance of his love for all that is gay in 
 color, none but the brightest flowers — and also some of the gorgeous 
 American leaves, sent by a friend for the purpose — are laid upon the 
 stone, making that one spot, in the midst of the vast and solemn build- 
 ing, bright and beautiful. 
 
 In a letter to " Plorn," before his departure for Australia, Charles 
 Dickens writes, " I hope you will always be able to say, in after-life, 
 that you had a kind father." And, to this hope, each one of his chil- 
 dren can answer, with a loving, grateful heart, Amen. 
 
 These reminiscences are written to show him, almost exclusively, 
 in his relation of father, and to show him as he was in his own domes- 
 tic circle, and in his home-life. In quoting my father's words, I have 
 used the present tense, — says or writes, — because his words are be- 
 fore me, and are a living reality, because his words will be a living 
 reality to generations yet to come. 
 
 So that we cannot think of him as dead. His spirit has walked 
 and does "walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide." 
 And his own words about death may be lovingly and reverently applied 
 to himself ; and we may say, — 
 
 " Of the loved, revered, and honored head, thou canst not turn one hair to thy 
 dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is not that the hand is heavy, and 
 will fall down when released ; it is not that the heart and pulse are still, — but that the 
 heart was open, generous, and true ; the heart brave, warm, and tender ; and the 
 pulse a man's. Strike, shadow, strike ! and see his good deeds springing from 
 the wound, to sow the world with life immortal."
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF DICKENS. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 I ALWAYS think of this eminent man of genius as excelling in 
 many different ways. Sometimes I dwell upon his gifts as a great 
 writer ; sometimes as a reader in public of his own works ; sometimes 
 as an amateur actor of plays ; sometimes as an orator ; and often, very 
 often, as the dearest and kindest of friends. 
 
 Not to have seen and known him is a deprivation hardly to be esti- 
 mated. There was a tonic in the very sound of his cheery voice, and 
 even dumb animals felt its magic when he spoke to them. When at 
 Gad's Hill (his delightful home in Kent) he used to call the dogs for 
 a walk, it seemed as if they would tumble him in the dust with their 
 caresses. I have seen three massive Newfoundlanders set upon him 
 at once, and almost devour him with affectionate recognition. I re- 
 member a horse he was accustomed to drive in a basket-wagon, who 
 seemed to laugh when he came out of the door, and said a few hearty 
 words of greeting to the animal on a summer morning. 
 
 There was that welcome quality of unmistakable cheerfulness in 
 the tone of Dickens's voice, which falls upon the ear of man or beast as 
 if a kind of fellowship were implied in it. He always " shook hands " 
 with the mastiffs and terriers who resided on Gad's Hill, as if they 
 were intimately related to him, and were just as much members of the 
 family as his own people inside the premises. 
 
 Hut his felicity rose highest when he was doing something to make 
 children happy. In that department of human endeavor, I do not 
 believe he ever had a superior ; and it was a treat indeed to see him 
 thus employed on special occasions. 
 
 About Christmas time he came out very strong in that line. He 
 used to begin his preparations a week or two before the festival came 
 round, and devote himself to the business with untiring zeal. He 
 48
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF DICKENS. 49 
 
 would then shut himself up for days, getting together all sorts of sur- 
 prises for the young people, who, with his own children, year after 
 year, made a Christmas carnival in his pleasant house. 
 
 He used to study up all sorts of conjurer's tricks for the amuse- 
 ment of his little guests, and so became quite an adept in causing 
 pennies and teaspoons to disappear down his own throat, pocket-hand- 
 kerchiefs to burn without hurting them, and apples and oranges to fly 
 off the table into impossible pockets. The games and charades he 
 invented for Christmas and New-Year's were without parallel in their 
 fun and absurdity. There was no let-up to his drollery in this way, for 
 his invention was endless. 
 
 He was a capital dancer ; and to see him cutting Christmas capers 
 to music in a merry reel, surrounded by children, was a wonderful sight 
 indeed. Sometimes he would imitate eccentric birds and animals with 
 a nimble facetiousness that would send young people rolling on the 
 floor in paroxysms of laughter and delight. 
 
 His mad pranks in this way often recalled Mr. Peggotty's remark 
 in " David Copperfield : " " It's my opinion, you see, as this was all 
 along of my havin' played with Em'ly so much when she was a child, 
 and havin' made believe as we was Turks, and French, and sharks, and 
 every variety of forriners, — bless you, yes ; and lions and whales, and 
 I don't know what all ! when she wasn't no higher than my knee." 
 
 It seems, indeed, sometimes, as if the object of Dickens's life was 
 to make other people contented and happy. There was not a poor 
 sick child or a cripple within five miles of Gad's Hill who had not felt 
 the tenderness of his bounty and the compassion of his presence. He 
 was one of those ever-ready almoners who are never taken by surprise 
 when want looks imploringly up from the roadside or in a hovel. You 
 never heard him say, " I have no small change about me ; " for he took 
 care to be supplied every morning, before he went out of his study, 
 with something substantial for the poor and the suffering. His house 
 was a kind of free apothecary's shop for all the sick people of the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 I have said these things about Charles Dickens here, so that, when 
 you read his books, my young friends, you may know what manner of 
 man it was who wrote them, how kind and charitable he was, how 
 anxiously he sought to share his happier lot with those on whom the 
 sun of prosperity never shone, and how he was willing to take the 
 trouble to lend a helping hand wherever there was need of his friendly 
 aid.
 
 50 RECOLLECTIONS OF DICKENS. 
 
 He was born on the 7th of February, 1 8 1 2, and was christened Charles 
 John Hougham Dickens; but he soon dropped the superfluous "John 
 Hougham," as too high-sounding for his simple taste. He once said, 
 if he were a fashionable doctor, he might think differently about the 
 matter. 
 
 When a school-boy, he won the hearts of all his mates by his many 
 acts of disinterested kindness. Among the first books he read and 
 rejoiced in were " The Vicar of Wakefield," " Robinson Crusoe," and 
 "The Arabian Nights." These stirred his imagination, and kept alive 
 his fancy years after he had ceased to be a boy. 
 
 He became a Parliamentary reporter when a lad of eighteen, and 
 invented a short-hand of his own to enable him to " take down " the 
 speeches with accuracy. He could write out his notes, holding the 
 paper on the palm of his hand, as he galloped along through the dead 
 of night up to the printing-office ; and the great orators of that day 
 used to declare that young Dickens was the only man who reported 
 their speeches correctly. The truth is, he corrected their verbiage, 
 and set their thoughts in a better style than many of them knew how 
 to employ. Dr. Johnson did the same thing when he reported for the 
 London press. 
 
 In the year 1835 Dickens dropped his first manuscript, a sketch 
 called " Mrs. Joseph Porter," into a dark letter-box, up a dark court in 
 Kent Street. He once described to me his sensation when his first 
 effusion came out in print, — how he trembled as he turned into a cer- 
 tain entry, and read it there, because his eyes were so blinded with joy 
 and pride that they could not bear the street. 
 
 And I remember, also, that he told me he had never got over the 
 excitement of first seeing in print any thing he had written for the 
 press. I was with him once in "All the Year Round" office (long 
 after he had become famous), when a proof of one of the " Uncommer- 
 cial Traveller " papers was sent up to him. 
 
 " Dear me ! " he exclaimed, " shall I never get over the thrill which 
 accompanies a sight of myself in type ? " 
 
 I have seen him more than once laugh wildly over a new and 
 humorous chapter of some story he was printing for the public. 
 
 He was one of the most methodical men I ever knew. He began 
 very early to be careful and painstaking. When a small boy, and earn- 
 ing his own living by a disagreeable employment, he would never 
 anticipate his means, but make his weekly salary last through its 
 allotted period. He would wrap the small sum he received for work
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF DICKENS. 5 1 
 
 into six little parcels, each parcel containing the same amount, and 
 labelled with a different day. 
 
 He never neglected any thing. " It is my habit," was a frequent 
 mode of expression with him, when asked how he found time to accom- 
 plish this or that seemingly out-of-the-way duty. Speaking with him 
 one morning in his study about will, persistence, memory, and other 
 qualities necessary to achievement in life, he took down from the shelf 
 one of his favorite books, Sydney Smith's " Sketches of Moral Philoso- 
 phy," a series of lectures delivered at the Royal Institution, and read 
 to me a memorable passage with great earnestness and feeling. The 
 volume was Dickens's constant companion in his many journeys about 
 the world ; and when he landed in America, a few years ago, he showed 
 it to me, saying, " You see, my old friend has come over with me." 
 
 The key to Dickens's motive as a novelist may be found most 
 eloquently embodied in his preface to " Oliver Twist." Whoever reads 
 that earnest prelude to the story will get at the intention of the author 
 in all his life-work, which was to set forth the principle of good, and 
 show how it survives through every adverse circumstance, and surely 
 triumphs at last. 
 
 What a charming tribute Thackeray paid to Dickens when he asked 
 if there was ever a better charity sermon preached in the world than 
 "The Christmas Carol," and when he says, "All children ought to 
 love Dickens. I know one, who, when she is happy, reads ' Nicholas 
 Nickleby ; ' when she is unhappy, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' when 
 she is tired, reads ' Nicholas Nickleby ; ' when she is in bed, reads 
 'Nicholas Nickleby;' when she has nothing to do, reads 'Nicholas 
 Nickleby ; ' and, when she has finished the book, — reads ' Nicholas 
 Nickleby' over again." 
 
 On the 9th of June, every year, Dickens's grave is covered with 
 flowers. On that day, in 1870, the great and noble spirit passed on to 
 join the immortal band of England's worthiest sons ; and ever since, 
 on the anniversary of his upward flight, many hearts are drawn to the 
 consecrated ground which holds his ashes. Flowers, not unmingled 
 with affectionate tears, are strewn, from morning till night, above his 
 resting-place ; and it is a beautiful tribute to his loving, pitying nature, 
 that the toil-worn hands of the poor and friendless are seen scattering 
 their humble offerings, on that memorial day, around the hallowed spot 
 in Westminster Abbey.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THACKERAY. 
 
 By CHARLES H. BRAINARD. 
 
 ONE afternoon, in the winter of 1853, as I was standing in my 
 office, I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading from the 
 street. Presently the door was opened ; and Charles Sumner walked 
 in, followed by William M. Thackeray, a man of such lofty stature and 
 proportionate stoutness that he actually made the Massachusetts sena- 
 tor look comparatively small. 
 
 The walls of my room were lined with portraits of notable men and 
 women, who had sat for them at my request ; and, as Thackeray exam- 
 ined them, he frequently expressed his delight, and declared that he 
 had never before seen such excellent specimens of the daguerrian art. 
 
 At this time he had never sat before the camera for his portrait, 
 although often importuned to do so in England and America ; but, 
 when I expressed a wish to add his picture to the collection he was 
 then admiring, he instantly replied, — 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I must have a shy at this." 
 
 As he had visited Washington for the purpose of giving his lectures 
 on "The English Humorists," his stay there was protracted : and he 
 repeated his visit to the gallery several times, and gave the promised 
 sittings ; the results of which were most expressive likenesses, some of 
 which were afterwards reproduced in engravings. 
 
 Thackeray spent much of his time in Washington with Mr. Sum- 
 ner, with whom he visited the numerous objects of interest in and 
 about the city. On entering the rotunda of the Capitol, he passed 
 hurriedly by the paintings which fill the panels, until he came to 
 Trumbull's " Declaration of Independence," before which he paused, 
 and, after looking at it in silence for several minutes, turned to Mr. 
 Sumner, and remarked, — 
 
 " This is worth all the rest : this is history." 
 52
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OE THACKERAY. 
 
 53 
 
 As he was an excellent art-critic, being himself a gifted draughts- 
 man, and had devoted much time to the study and practice of art, he 
 must have seen many examples of painting and sculpture in Washing- 
 ton that could hardly fail to suggest unfavorable comments ; but on 
 such works he would invariably bestow the charity of his silence. 
 
 As he passed by the equestrian statue of Jackson, by Clark Mills, 
 in company with Mr. Sumner, he never betrayed, by word or look, a 
 consciousness of its existence ; and this silence Mr. Sumner pro- 
 nounced, as he related the incident, one of the most wonderful exhi- 
 bitions of politeness he ever witnessed. 
 
 Thackeray was evidently a keen observer of human nature, and a 
 great student of character as expressed in the faces of those with 
 whom he casually came in contact.
 
 54 RECOLLECTIONS OF THACKERAY. 
 
 I once met him at one of the Saturday-evening receptions of Dr. 
 Bailey, editor of "The National Era," where his tall and majestic fig- 
 ure made him the most conspicuous person present. On this occasion, 
 he had a few pleasant words for those who were presented to him, but 
 appeared lost in thought most of the time, as he stood in the centre 
 of the room, and scanned the faces of those who moved around him. 
 
 I afterwards met him at the National Hotel in one of the public 
 rooms, which are crowded at night by Congressmen, and strangers gen- 
 erally. He was quietly sitting upon a settee, which was partly occu- 
 pied by others, and gazing intently upon the moving throng, who were 
 evidently ignorant of the name and character of him who thus surveyed 
 them. 
 
 He gave his lectures on "The English Humorists" to large audi- 
 ences in Carusi's saloon. The interest of these lectures was in their 
 matter, and in their author, but not in their manner of delivery ; for 
 he was utterly wanting in those graces of oratory which add so much 
 to the pleasure of listening to the reading of a genuine literary per- 
 formance. He was closely confined to his manuscript, which he read 
 in a monotone ; yet he was always audible, and he commanded the 
 closest attention of his auditors. 
 
 Before he left Washington for the South, his lectures on " The 
 English Humorists " were announced by the Harpers in their list of 
 forthcoming publications. While conversing, one morning, concerning 
 his intended tour through the Southern States, I alluded to this an- 
 nouncement, and inquired if the volume containing his lectures would 
 be published before he had fulfilled his engagements to deliver them. 
 
 " Bless you, no ! " replied he. " Do you think I'd rip open my 
 goose ? " These lectures attracted as large audiences in every South- 
 ern city, where they were read, as they did in the North ; and, shortly 
 after the completion of his tour, he returned to England, fully satisfied 
 with the financial results of his visit to the United States. 
 
 In the winter of 1855 he returned to this country, and made a 
 second lecturing-tour ; the subject of his lectures being "The Four 
 Georges," which were more successful, in a lucrative point of view, 
 than "The English Humorists." In England they were less popular 
 than they were in America, the free and impartial manner in which he 
 discussed the lives and characters of his royal subjects having made 
 them distasteful to those who believed in the divine right of kings. 
 
 I had several brief interviews with him at Washington during this 
 recent visit, and at one time enjoyed in anticipation the pleasure of
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THACKERAY. 55 
 
 journeying with him through the Southern States as his companion 
 and business agent, having been recommended to him for that position 
 by Rev. William H. Milburn, the blind preacher and lecturer, with 
 whom I had made a similar tour a few months before. 
 
 This led to a correspondence concerning the proposed trip, but it 
 was finally decided that the arrangements already made for him in the 
 cities where he had engagements would render the service of a special 
 agent unnecessary ; and the project was accordingly abandoned, and 
 much to my regret. 
 
 As he was about leaving Philadelphia for Baltimore, he addressed 
 me the following note, which, though relating exclusively to a business 
 matter, can hardly fail to be interesting, from the fact that but few of 
 his letters have ever been printed : — 
 
 Jan. 5, Lapierre H. 
 My dear Sir, — I thank you and Mr. Milburn for the offer which you make me. 
 I have friends at Richmond, Charleston, and Savannah, and a half engagement to a 
 society in New Orleans. Afterwards, I am engaged by societies at St. Louis and 
 Cincinnati, so that I think I shall hardly want a manager for my career. I shall be 
 at Baltimore on Tuesday (for Wednesday and Thursday) : and if you think, after the 
 above knowledge regarding my plans, that we could do any business together, perhaps 
 you could find time for a run over from Washington ; but I don't at present see how 
 I need any aid, except that of the faithful Englishman who takes charge of me. 
 Believe me, 
 
 Your very faithful servant, 
 
 W. M. Thackeray. 
 
 This note was evidently written with a quill pen, and was remark- 
 able for the distinctness with which every letter was formed, and for 
 the straightness of the lines, the paper being unruled. In these par- 
 ticulars, it resembled a printed page, the letters being scarcely larger 
 than those made by ordinary type. For the clearness of his hand- 
 writing, and general neatness of his manuscripts, Thackeray was noted 
 among his literary associates. His first draughts were rarely altered ; 
 and his copy went to the printer's without interlineations, blots, or 
 erasures. 
 
 A few days before he started on his Southern tour, I met him, by 
 appointment, at the National Hotel in Washington. On entering his 
 room, I found him seated on his trunk, and gazing earnestly at a fire 
 which had evidently just been kindled in the grate. He wore his hat 
 and overcoat, and the expression of his countenance was far from 
 cheerful. 
 
 He was apparently cold and weary. Although there was no lack
 
 56 RECOLLECTIONS OF THACKERAY. 
 
 of chairs in the room, he invited me to a seat on the trunk, where we 
 sat for nearly an hour, during which time he spoke of his pleasant 
 experiences in Philadelphia and Baltimore, and of his proposed trip to 
 the South, from which he seemed to anticipate much pleasure and 
 profit. 
 
 He returned to England in the summer of 1856, and from that 
 time, till his death, was actively engaged in literary labors. In 1857 
 he was a candidate for a seat in Parliament, but failed of an election. 
 At about this time the first number of " The Virginians " was issued, 
 and continued to be published in monthly parts till its completion in 
 October, 1859, when he became editor of the " Cornhill Magazine," 
 the publication of which was hailed with delight ; for he was now in 
 the very zenith of his popularity, and his writings were read with 
 avidity by all classes of people. 
 
 Over one hundred thousand copies of the new magazine were 
 quickly sold, and there was but little falling off in the sale of sub- 
 sequent issues. His connection with this magazine continued till his 
 death, which occurred on the 24th of December, 1863. 
 
 His departure was sudden and unexpected. He had been ill for 
 twenty-four hours, and at an hour before midnight was left by his 
 valet, whom he wished " Good-night " as he went out of the room. 
 At nine o'clock on the following morning, the valet entered the cham- 
 ber, and discovered that the great novelist was dead.
 
 A DAY WITH 
 
 MRS. DINAH MULOCK CRAIK, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX." 
 
 By SARAH M. DAWSON. 
 
 A BRIGHT fire burned in the open grate ; and on the edge of the 
 large brass fender, which was drawn farther from the coals than 
 usual, was a row of little feet. The coals gave the only light, and 
 threw dim shadows along the bare floor of the large classroom, across 
 the table in the centre, to the row of chairs against the opposite wall. 
 
 The boys to whom those little feet belonged, sat on what is called 
 a form. In most English schools the boys sit on high forms, without 
 backs ; and the children cannot rest their feet on the floor. These boys 
 sat on chairs at the tables during some of their class-hours, and, dur- 
 ing other recitations, with their seats moved back against the wall. 
 The few forms kept in the large room for occasional use were always 
 preferred before the open-grate fire, because so many boys could crowd 
 together ; and the row of little feet along the fender, showed how cosey 
 the company was. 
 
 We had been talking about a visit to Mrs. Craik. 
 
 "Will she be any thing like Miss March ? " asked one of the little 
 company, leaning his elbows on his knees, and resting his chin in his 
 hands. 
 
 A tumult of "Yes" and "No" followed, and a great deal of boy- 
 logic for and against Mrs. Craik's resemblance to Ursula March ; for 
 these boys had just finished the reading of "John Halifax, Gentleman," 
 and knew the beautiful character of Ursula. 
 
 " Is she pretty ? " again asked my young friend, pleased that he had 
 roused such an excitement among his mates. 
 
 57
 
 58 AfRS. DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. 
 
 " Miss March couldn't write stories if she was pretty," said one of 
 the boys, with a very positive air and an animated face, though with 
 eyes closed, as if the lids were held together for mischief. There were 
 many dreamy eyes and closed lids in that group. The bright firelight 
 troubled none of them, for this is a picture in a London boarding-school 
 for the blind. 
 
 Mrs. Craik invited the pupils of the " Royal Normal College for the 
 Blind " to visit in her home twice that season ; and my conversation 
 with these children, who were among the visitors, had been previous 
 to one of these visits. The first time, I was much touched to see the 
 care she had taken to invite a large number of friends, and enlist their 
 sympathies ; so that every blind person, old and young, had some see- 
 ing-friend to supply his wants, and entertain him. 
 
 The second visit was in the month of July ; and, as Mrs. Craik 
 had promised, we had her almost alone. I will tell you of this visit 
 only, for you must care far more for this good and loving woman than 
 for the friends and neighbors she has drawn around her. 
 
 From Upper Norwood we went by train to Bromley, only a few 
 miles distant. A number of carriages had been sent to the station by 
 Mr. Craik, but they did not accommodate all the party of thirty-eight. 
 I walked with the few who were left, rather than wait for a carriage to 
 return. We could not have chosen a lovelier road than the lane we 
 soon turned into, which leads from Bromley road into Shortland's Grove. 
 
 The trees were very tall elms, with branches interlacing overhead. 
 The high wooden fence on each side was covered with English ivy ; 
 and the green archway kept turning and winding, giving us ever-chan- 
 ging vistas. This lane is a favorite place for listening to the nightin- 
 gales. " Corner House," where the lane enters the Shortland's road, 
 is the home of Mrs. Craik. 
 
 We found those who had gone in carriages already feeling quite at 
 home in the hay-field opposite the house. It was full of mounds of dry 
 hay, just ready for the barn ; and Mrs. Craik had planned to let the 
 blind boys and girls loose in a hay-field, as a rare treat. 
 
 " Now go, boys," she said, " and see if you can find a hay-stack, 
 and level it for a nice seat for the ladies." 
 
 They could meet with no harm, and had rare fun, shouting and 
 running about, till a loud, "Oh! I've got it!" announced success in 
 coming upon one of the miniature stacks ; and all gathered to the 
 signal, and began pulling down the hay. They made hay ropes, and 
 played in the hay to their heart's content, till Mrs. Craik sat down in
 
 MRS. DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. 
 
 59 
 
 the middle of a stack the boys had nearly levelled ; and a large group 
 gathered on the hay close around her. 
 
 Then sweet-voiced Jessie from Liverpool sang, " Ye Banks and 
 Braes o' Bonnie Doon," while Mrs. Craik sang alto with her. It was 
 very sweet, and they sang slowly and with feeling straight through the 
 
 homely words. 
 
 Then Mrs. Craik sang the solo of " Hard 
 Times," and the pupils joined her in the 
 chorus. All sang " My Old Kentucky 
 
 The Home of Mrs. Craik. 
 
 Home ; " and Mrs. Craik knew the words of these ballads, so that she 
 could prompt the few Americans of the party. 
 
 Later, men came from the barn with a large wagon ; and, as each 
 hayload was ready, the boys were piled on top, amidst a great deal of 
 shouting and glee, for a ride to the barn. Mrs. Craik walked over, to 
 direct that the loads should not be high, and that safety, with the 
 greatest amount of freedom, should be given to each guest. By the 
 time every boy had had a ride, a dinner-bell sounded from the house 
 opposite ; and all went across with the hostess.
 
 60 MRS. DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. 
 
 The house occupies a corner-lot, and is some distance from the 
 country-road in front, and from the charming, shady lane, which runs 
 along the left as you face the house. The lower story is of red brick ; 
 while the rest, up to the Gothic roof, is finished in red tiles, over- 
 lapping. On the right is a study and reception-room ; on the left a 
 long drawing-room ; and, across the end of the hall, the dining-room, 
 extending to the right. 
 
 As we left the reception-room, and stepped out into the large hall 
 in the centre of the house, Jimmy Neal, one of the blind boys, slipped 
 his hand into mine, and said, "Tell us what the walls are made of." 
 He had put his hand out to guide himself, and felt the smooth porcelain 
 tiles. So I took several of the boys to the side of the hall, and let 
 them find the lines where the tiles joined, and feel over the whole 
 smooth surface, while I told them the colors of the conventional pat- 
 tern. Then they studied the tessellated marble floor, which was made 
 of pieces nearly as small as the tiles in the wall. Johnnie Scorah had 
 a funny way of expressing satisfaction, — a low, prolonged 66 ; and his 
 beaming face was bright with interest in all that he saw through his 
 sensitive finger-tips. 
 
 Mrs. Craik was in the hall with us, and was much interested in 
 having the children see every thing. By her side, clinging to her 
 hand, was the only child of the household, a little adopted daughter. 
 
 As the house is in Elizabethan style, the wooden beams of the 
 ceilings are exposed in all the rooms. The walls are thick, and long 
 ottomans fill the window-recesses. The panes of glass are tiny and 
 diamond-shaped. In the dining-room, across the fireplace, is carved in 
 the stone, the motto, " East or west, hame is best." A true home it 
 seemed, and we greatly enjoyed our long-continued stay in the quaint 
 dining-room. The table was more than full ; and chairs were placed 
 near the window-ottomans, so that little groups enjoyed themselves 
 there as much as at the table. 
 
 Mrs. Craik's friends were pleasantly surprised to see the easy and 
 familiar use of all the nice table-appointments, for the blind are not 
 so well trained in any other school in Great Britain. 
 
 At our first visit, we had gone, after dinner, into the drawing-room 
 to meet a large number of guests whom Mrs. Craik had invited to call 
 while the children were there ; and we had had music, and some very 
 agreeable conversation. Mr. Craik, in a black velvet home-coat, had 
 presided at dinner, and been genial and pleasant as he moved about 
 among his guests.
 
 MRS. DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. 6 1 
 
 This second visit was a gala-time for the children ; and, after din- 
 ner, the whole company went again to the hay-field, and spent a happy 
 half-hour, before the signal was given for all to sit clown u^>on the hay- 
 mounds, and partake of some delicious strawberries and cream. Mrs. 
 Craik said she had watched the strawberry -beds jealously for several 
 days, to secure enough of the fairest and sweetest for her blind friends. 
 
 It was as pretty and characteristic a picture of Mrs. Craik as one 
 could wish, to see her benevolent face turned thoughtfully and lovingly 
 toward each guest in turn, as she sat in the midst, and felt, no doubt, 
 glad that she had given them one glad day. 
 
 Soon we were on our way back to Norwood ; and when the boys 
 sat again on the form, and the quiet little feet made a close row along 
 the fender, as they did many an evening during the school-year that 
 followed, they talked of Mrs. Craik, and no longer asked, " Is she 
 pretty ? " but all said, — 
 
 " Isn't she just lovely ! "
 
 A MEETING WITH GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 By MRS. JOHN LILLIE. 
 
 IT is now some years since a friend wrote, asking me to come, quite 
 informally, on a certain afternoon, to hear some music practised. 
 The music lingered long in my mind, for it was played by a quartet 
 of the greatest musicians in the world, and was of itself marvellous ; 
 but the company impressed me even more vividly. 
 
 Only a few people were present. The large, quaintly furnished 
 room seemed half empty as I entered, and took my place near one or 
 two musical friends ; but, almost at once, I was struck by the appear- 
 ance, manner, and voice of a lady sitting close beside me, — a large 
 woman, apparently about forty-five years of age, with wonderfully 
 sweet eyes, a massive brow, soft chestnut hair, and features irregular 
 and somewhat masculine, but fairly illumined by an expression of in- 
 telligence and peculiarly sympathetic sweetness. 
 
 She was richly dressed, with some disregard to the detail of fashion, 
 but with an air of dignified splendor in the materials, as well as in 
 the cut of her gown and cloak, in the fashion of her hat, and even 
 in the exquisite and rare old lace which fell about her neck and 
 wrists. 
 
 Looking at her impressive face and figure, I thought her the most 
 striking person I had ever seen. Yet no picture, no pen-portrait, could 
 do her justice; for who could describe that inspired look when she 
 spoke, or give the peculiar charm of her deep, melancholy eyes, in 
 which sometimes her rare, sweet smile lingered, deepening the kindly 
 look, yet never banishing that curious pathetic expression, which was 
 as of one who had looked into the very depths of human sadness, and 
 come back to the lighter visions of the world with a melancholy never 
 to be cast aside ? 
 62
 
 A MEETING WITH GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 63 
 
 I could not keep away from the fascination of this strange, dignified 
 lady, who sat for some time a little apart, but with her eyes often eager- 
 ly upon the 
 musicians. 
 Presently, 
 a chance 
 phrase led 
 us into con- 
 versation. 
 
 I felt my- 
 self eager 
 to catch 
 every sylla- 
 ble this un- 
 known lady 
 spoke, for 
 the charm 
 of her rich, 
 sweet voice 
 warmed the 
 most insig- 
 
 nificant phrases of our 
 conversation. When 
 something peculiarly fine 
 occurred in the first music 
 performed, I remember 
 her turning, flashing that 
 rare, soft smile upon 
 me ; and, from that sym- 
 pathetic moment, we 
 talked freely of the music 
 about us, and also the music of the then melodious London season. 
 It has been my good fortune to meet many amateurs whose musi- 
 cal instincts were as keen as their knowledge was fine ; but I have
 
 64 A MEETING WITH GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 never met any person, who, in a few words, could say what she did of 
 the very fibre of the musician's art. As she talked, with the utmost 
 simplicity, but showing, not only absolute technical knowledge, but the 
 daintiest appreciations, I listened, wondering and debating in my mind 
 who she could be. Surely, I said to myself, it must be some famous 
 artiste, with whose face and voice I am unfamiliar. Almost at that 
 moment, the voice of a young friend, just behind me, whispered, — 
 
 " Do you know you are talking to George Eliot ? " 
 
 I then realized why it was I had been involuntarily paying such hom- 
 age to the woman's presence. Though I saw her often later, the abid- 
 ing association in my mind will be of the " George Eliot " of that 
 tuneful day, — the brilliant, quiet, magnetic woman, whose face re- 
 flected her feelings with half shadows, half lights, yet who seemed so 
 strong in her personality that it was impossible for a moment to forget 
 the woman in the genius. 
 
 People, even in London, used to wonder that so few ever saw 
 George Eliot. Her home-life was not exactly secluded. She lived in 
 a large, old-fashioned stone house, called " The Priory," set in a gar- 
 den, and with a wall and gateway over which green things, and the 
 color of lilacs and almond-blossoms, used to be seen in the early sum- 
 mer. And then she entertained a great many of her friends, having 
 informal receptions in which she was the presiding spirit, though she 
 always seemed to try to lead others to shine in conversation or musi- 
 cal performance. She did much in charity : she gave freely to those 
 who were in need among the struggling literati. And, although averse 
 to the society of strangers, her manner was unfailingly sweet and kind. 
 
 Every one who reads her books must know how hard she worked, 
 and I used to hear of how laboriously pages of " Middlemarch " were 
 written. She would go over and over every sentence, sometimes doing 
 no more than a page a day, and altering whole scenes because a char- 
 acter described in them did not quite satisfy her ideal of it. No one, 
 I believe, ever worked so purely for the love of her art ; for she needed 
 neither fame nor fortune. She was rich. Her novels had been always 
 successful, " Middlemarch " alone bringing her one hundred thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 When her books were finished, the manuscript was always hand- 
 somely bound, and put on one of the library-shelves. 
 
 Music was an absorbing passion with her. She played brilliantly, 
 but her technical knowledge was even better than her power of per- 
 formance. She played only for a few chosen friends. Her music was
 
 A MEETING WITH GEORGE ELIOT. 65 
 
 so intensely part of herself, that she could not give it freely ; and it 
 had a wonderful effect upon her. After either performing, or listening 
 to, fine music, she was frequently completely unnerved, unable to com- 
 mand herself, and more likely to break down into tears than to talk 
 calmly. But she enjoyed writing about harmony. No one ever drew 
 the musical nature better than she did in the musician of " Daniel 
 Deronda." 
 
 Her life was spent sometimes in journeying upon the Continent, but 
 chiefly in London, her home. She was always to be seen at the best 
 concerts. How well I remember her noble-looking face and figure 
 Monday after Monday at St. James Hall ; and here and there, wher- 
 ever good music was to be heard, one was sure of seeing her. At her 
 house, famous musicians used to congregate. She was fond of walking 
 up and down her long, beautiful drawing-room, while some one played 
 in the twilight. She would rarely speak at such times. She listened 
 intently, but silence was her applause.
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 By WILLIAM H. RIDEING. 
 
 ANY one who knows the history of the British constitution, and 
 how jealously it is guarded ; how flexible and yet consistent it 
 is ; how effectually it secures the liberty and dignity of the subject ; 
 how precious it is to all classes ; and the long years of political strife 
 of which it is the fruition, — must feel a thrill as, coming down through 
 Whitehall from that busy centre of London, Charing Cross, he stands 
 for the first time before the Houses of Parliament. 
 
 The buildings themselves are of great beauty and size, covering 
 nearly eight acres. They are in the Tudor-Gothic style ; and their 
 outlines are so broken and relieved by towers, spires, and buttresses, 
 and fretted masonry, that they have no appearance of cumbrousness. 
 
 Abutting on them is the famous abbey, under the lofty roof of 
 which the illustrious dead of England are buried. At the northern 
 end is the great clock-tower in which the hours are struck on a bell 
 that can be heard eight miles away. 
 
 But it is not the buildings that appeal to our veneration. It is the 
 principles and the history with which they are associated. They bring 
 to mind, and seem to embody, the long chain of events by which the 
 character of the government has been formed, and by which the 
 supremacy of the crown has been adjusted to permit the sovereignty 
 of the people. 
 
 Nominally living under a monarchy, the English subject has all the 
 personal freedom a republic could give him ; and, though the sanction 
 of the Queen and the peers is necessary in law-making, it is his repre- 
 sentatives in the House of Commons who control the destinies of the 
 country. The Queen and the lords may reject a measure passed by 
 them ; but such a course is unusual, and is looked upon with suspicion 
 and emphatic disfavor. 
 
 66
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 67 
 
 Though in spirit and intention the House of Commons is modern, 
 it holds to many ancient and inconvenient customs in transacting its 
 business ; and, to an American, some of the formalities are likely to 
 be amusing when the awe of his first impression has worn off. The 
 incongruity of these hereditary observances becomes all the more 
 striking, as it is mixed with an occasional levity of behavior, and a boy- 
 ishness of antics, among the members, which probably would not be 
 tolerated by any other legislative body in the world. 
 
 But the Commons have many privileges. The public cannot de- 
 mand a place in their assemblies ; and, though a spectator may be 
 admitted by courtesy, he can be expelled at any moment by a mem- 
 ber's calling the attention of the Speaker to the fact that there are 
 "strangers in the gallery." 
 
 As a conspicuous gallery is usually occupied by strangers, the 
 Speaker may not find any information in the announcement ; but it is 
 practically a notification to him that the gallery must be cleared. 
 
 The House is chary of its favors ; and the space for visitors is small, 
 admission to it being obtained either through a member of Parliament 
 or the ambassadors of foreign courts. Mr. Lowell has the privilege 
 of issuing two cards every day ; and if, instead of two, he had a score, 
 or more, he would not have enough to meet the applications made for 
 them at the Legation. 
 
 Having secured the much-coveted pass, however, we cross the 
 Palace Yard, and enter Westminster Hall. The light falls softly 
 through the windows, and across the grand interior, in slanting beams. 
 Under this dark roof of chestnut, with its span of seventy-four feet, 
 the Earl of Strafford and Charles the First were tried. 
 
 At the end of the hall we enter a corridor decorated with large 
 frescos ; and, at a glass door, a policeman accosts us, to inquire whether 
 we have a pass to the gallery. This is the end of the tether, as far as 
 the unfavored public is concerned ; but the card indorsed by the 
 "Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of the United 
 States," which is Mr. Lowell's full official title, admits us through the 
 door into a lofty rotunda, where, if any gratification is to be had from 
 the experience, we may mingle with the chosen representatives of the 
 English people. 
 
 Our pass is scrutinized by an officious door-keeper sitting in a 
 wicker chair, who has held his position so long, and has been so 
 humored by the members, that he carries himself with greater self- 
 exaltation than any of them, and who reminds us of that door-keeper
 
 68 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 in Washington, who described himself as a " biger man than old 
 Grant." By him the pass is sent to the sergeant-at-arms, who counter- 
 signs it ; and, when we have presented it to another door-keeper, we 
 are shown into a narrow, winding, prison-like stairway, with stone steps 
 and walls, at the head of which we come into the gallery of the House 
 itself. 
 
 The building is not as well lighted, not as well ventilated, not as 
 large, nor as well adapted to its purposes, as the Chambers of Con- 
 gress at Washington. But the effect upon the visitor is more impres- 
 sive. The light becomes mellow in pouring through the Gothic 
 windows and their colored borders, in which the motto is repeated, 
 "God and my Right." The upholstery is of a dark material ; and the 
 ceiling, all the woodwork, and the walls, are dark also, as in a very old 
 church. The building, in form and atmosphere, indeed, is strongly 
 ecclesiastical. 
 
 It is nearly square. All the floor is reserved for the members, who 
 sit on long, cushioned benches, extending parallel along the hall, and 
 divided by a wide aisle, which is known as the gangway. At the head 
 of the gangway is the Speaker's chair ; and the benches on the right- 
 hand side are occupied by the governing party, while those on the left 
 are occupied by the opposition. The benches below the gangway are 
 in possession of the independent members, who give allegiance neither 
 to the Conservatives nor the Liberals. 
 
 At some height from the floor is a narrow gallery, which extends 
 all round the building. That part over the Speaker's chair is given to 
 the reporters of the newspapers ; and the accommodations here are so 
 limited, that a score or more wealthy and influential journals are repre- 
 sented by one man. A similar space at the other end is devoted to 
 strangers admitted by the members' orders ; and the side-galleries 
 are intended for the members of the various legations, or members of 
 the other House. 
 
 To any one in the strangers' gallery, a dark vault can be seen over 
 the reporters' desks, screened by an iron scroll : and, as we gaze at 
 this, some shadowy faces become visible, which seem to belong to a 
 smoky picture, until they move ; and then we see that they are alive. 
 The enclosure up there is the ladies' gallery ; and though it has neither 
 light nor air, and little can be heard in it, places are sought for by 
 more than can be admitted. 
 
 It is not easy to understand why, but, instead of transacting its 
 business in business hours, the House of Commons does not assemble
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 69 
 
 until four o'clock in the afternoon, and it continues in session until 
 three or four o'clock in the morning. 
 
 The proceedings are opened by the entrance of two gentlemen 
 in court -suits of black, — black small-clothes, black silk stockings, 
 shoes with steel buttons, exquisitely frilled shirts, and dainty swords 
 in black sheaths, — one of whom bears the heavy gold mace which em- 
 blemizes the power 
 of the Speaker, 
 and which Crom- 
 well contemptu- 
 ously called "that 
 bauble." 
 
 Following 
 these is the Speak- 
 er himself in wig 
 and gown, with 
 his train-bearer, his 
 chaplain, and his 
 secretary. An 
 usher then informs 
 the persons in 
 the lobby that 
 " Mr. Speaker is 
 at prayers ; " and 
 there is a lull in 
 the conversation, 
 until the same 
 voice announces, 
 " Mr. Speaker is 
 in the chair," when 
 the members take 
 their seats, doffing their hats if it is necessary to pass the Speaker, 
 and putting them on again immediately afterwards, and wearing them 
 through the proceedings, except when addressing that official. They 
 sit with folded legs and folded arms, and in any attitude which is most 
 comfortable to them. 
 
 The members of the cabinet and the ministry have the benches 
 nearest to the Speaker's right hand ; and, half an hour having been 
 given for the presentation of petitions, "question time" comes, when 
 the various ministers are expected to be in their places, to answer any
 
 JO THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 questions as to the departments under their control. No matter what 
 hostile criticism a speech may contain, one member invariably refers 
 to another as " the honorable member, if he is a commoner ; as " the 
 honorable member, my noble lord," if he is a person of title ; and as 
 "the gallant and honorable member," if he is an officer of the army or 
 navy, the personal names never being used ; and this punctilious cour- 
 tesy of address often savors of irony. 
 
 One honorable member inquires if it is true that a lady of the Sul- 
 tan's harem, who sought refuge in the British Embassy, and was given 
 up, has been strangled as an accomplice in a palace conspiracy. The 
 Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs assures him that such is 
 not the case ; that the lady is well and happy, and about to be married. 
 
 Another honorable member is informed by the same official, in 
 answer to a question as to whether a British subject in Chili has been 
 treated with indignity, that a gun-boat has been despatched to exact 
 reparation. 
 
 This Under Secretary, Sir Charles Dilke, is one of the youngest, 
 most popular, and most promising, members of the government, of 
 whom it is predicted, that, within ten years, he will stand at the head 
 of his party. He is about thirty-eight years of age, and is all the 
 more interesting to Americans as he is an avowed Republican, who 
 believes in a federation of English-speaking men, of which the United 
 States shall supply the nucleus and the model. 
 
 Sitting near him is the Marquis of Hartington, the Secretary of 
 State for India, — a handsome, aristocratic-looking gentleman, who 
 speaks with little fervor, except when adopting a tone of scorn ; and 
 in the same neighborhood is Mr. Forster, the Secretary for Ireland, 
 who speaks in a quiet yet forcible manner, and looks pensive and care- 
 worn. The premier, Mr. Gladstone, is away, recovering from an attack 
 of illness ; but here is the venerable John Bright ; the brilliant and 
 combative Home Secretary, Vernon Harcourt ; and the blind Professor 
 Fawcett, the Postmaster-General. 
 
 On the opposite bench we see Sir Stafford Northcote, who, since 
 Mr. Disraeli's elevation, has been the leader of the opposition in the 
 Commons, — a large, well-formed gentleman, with a quickness of glance 
 and manner. 
 
 The interest of the debates depends on the matter under consid- 
 eration, for the average orator of the House of Commons is not usually 
 capable of vitalizing any subject he may have in hand ; though the 
 members we have mentioned are all brilliant.
 
 THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 7 1 
 
 Before adjournment, a great many prolix, ill-balanced speeches are 
 made in the sing-song, hesitating manner that is so common among 
 Englishmen. Those who are not speaking are usually aware of the 
 defects of their associate who is, and are not backward in expressing 
 their impatience and disapprobation by groans and derisive laughter. 
 
 At three in the morning, it is often a wonder how many words have 
 been spoken, and how little has been done ; and yet the members, who 
 endure the misery of sitting up all night, receive, unlike the American 
 Congressman, no salary, and no opportunities for political patronage.
 
 FOUR FAMOUS SCENES IN THE HOUSE 
 OF COMMONS. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. 
 I. 
 
 THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD. 
 
 ON the 1 2th of August, 1876, the British House of Commons was 
 not a very lively place to look upon. It was the last working- 
 day of a session that had been prolonged and exhaustive. The East- 
 ern Question was passing through its acutest phase. 
 
 The civilized world had been shocked by the atrocities in Bulgaria. 
 Mr. Gladstone, awakening from his temporary lethargy, had lifted his 
 voice in burning denunciation in the House of Commons, and was 
 presently to carry the fiery cross through towns and counties. 
 
 Mr. Disraeli, tempted by the felicity of the phrase, in a fatal mo- 
 ment sneered at the report of the outrages as "coffee-house babble," 
 and had with great difficulty, always pushed onward by facts, been 
 obliged to retreat from that position, and to face the reality. 
 
 The Liberal opposition in the House of Commons, recovering from 
 the depression that weighed them down in 1874, had been active and 
 persistent. The Irish members had been increasingly aggressive. 
 There was war abroad, and turmoil at home. For ministers, the only 
 bright gleam on the horizon was the fact that the session was at last 
 over, and that for five months they would have peace from Parliamen- 
 tary interpellation. 
 
 On this particular night the House was nearly empty, and alto- 
 gether dull. The Appropriation Bill had reached its third stage. This 
 dealt with, there remained only the ceremony of prorogation. Under 
 72
 
 SCENES IN THE BOUSE OF COMMONS. 73 
 
 ordinary circumstances, the House would have been emptier still : but 
 the Liberals had made up their minds for a final fling ; and, stopping 
 short of challenging the government to a division, they put up Mr. 
 Evelyn Ashley to move an amendment calling attention to ministerial 
 laches in respect to the outrages in Bulgaria. The premier sat through 
 the debate with folded arms, knees crossed, and head bent down, pre- 
 senting an aspect of one whose thoughts were far away, and for whom 
 the ceaseless flow of talk from the benches opposite had not the 
 slightest interest. Mr. Forster brought his heavy artillery to bear 
 upon the government, and was answered with painstaking verbosity by 
 Mr. Bourke, Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. 
 
 Others took part in the debate ; and towards nine o'clock Sir Wil- 
 liam Harcourt rose, and, after his manner, addressed the House at 
 considerable length. 
 
 It is possible, that, till now, the premier did not intend to reply. 
 The speeches were what Mr. Carlyle called "thrice-boiled colewort." 
 They had been served up over and over again through the long ses- 
 sion, and there was nothing new or useful to be said. But it would 
 not do for the session to close with the opposition having the last 
 word ; and, when Sir William Harcourt resumed his seat, Mr. Disraeli 
 rose, and appeared at the table. 
 
 He spoke for half an hour ; but the speech, though an ever memor- 
 able one, did not approach the level of his ordinary successes. The 
 talk from the other side had dealt closely with facts and figures ; and 
 these had, through a long and brilliant career, always been Mr. Dis- 
 raeli's chiefest difficulties. But the charges formulated were very 
 serious, — were calculated to impress the public, and must be met. So, 
 with dull manner and level voice, the premier went through or round 
 the points raised, and attempted to vindicate his government. 
 
 Here and there the speech was lightened by playful attacks on Sir 
 William Harcourt, "who," he observed with great gravity, "will be in 
 the future one of our greatest statesmen." 
 
 Speaking on questions of foreign policy, Mr. Disraeli always fin- 
 ished up with a tag, — some bristling words calculated to call forth a 
 cheer from good Conservatives. " Our duty is, at this critical mo- 
 ment," he said, raising his voice, and puffing out his cheeks, and beat- 
 ing the air with his hands, " to maintain the Empire of England ; nor 
 will we ever agree to any step that may obtain for a moment compara- 
 tive and false prosperity that hazards the existence of the Empire." 
 
 These — though, at the time, not half a dozen of the men who
 
 74 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 heard them were aware of the fact — were the last words spoken in 
 the House of Commons by Benjamin Disraeli. The speech itself was 
 so evidently unpremeditated, that there could scarcely be any design 
 in the choice of the concluding sentence. Yet it is a remarkable co- 
 incidence, that the very last word uttered by the great minister at the 
 table where he had had so many triumphs, was " empire ; " and, of all 
 words in the English language, that was the one held in his highest 
 favor. 
 
 For the maintenance and extension of the British Empire, he had, 
 since he reached power, worked and planned and risked and plotted. 
 He had made his queen an empress ; and, knowing he would never 
 more lift his voice in the House of Commons, he sat down with the 
 word empire on his lips. 
 
 It was nearly eleven o'clock when Mr. Disraeli resumed his seat, 
 late for the last working-day of the session. The Appropriation Bill 
 passed its ultimate stage, and members flocked out. There remained 
 only some formal business to be accomplished, and the session to be 
 over, save for the empty ceremony of prorogation. Amidst the buzz 
 of conversation, Mr. Disraeli rose, and strolled down the House. 
 
 His usual custom was that of all ministers, to avail himself of the 
 private key which gave him ingress and egress at the door behind the 
 Speaker's chair. Now the premier walked down the floor of the House 
 between the two camps, and, turning before he reached the bar, made 
 a low obeisance to the Speaker. He stood a moment, and gazed round 
 the House. What thoughts must have crowded upon his mind, already 
 occupied with the momentous secret, that, on the following morning, 
 was to break upon an astonished world ! 
 
 Forty years ago he had first entered the House, and presently 
 made that famous speech in which he foretold the coming of the time 
 when the jeering throng "should hear him." Many with whom he 
 lived and fought had long ago vanished. Peel, Hume, O'Connell, 
 Palmerston, Russell, Brougham, Cobden, all were gone. Gladstone, 
 with whom the later and more successful portion of his life had been 
 a protracted duel, was not present now to see him leave. 
 
 The House was emptying fast. The Speaker and the clerks at the 
 table were busied about small bills, anxious only to get done, and go 
 home. Mr. Disraeli turned around, walked out ; and no one looking 
 on knew that one of the most momentous episodes in the annals of 
 Parliament was complete, and that one of the two most familiar figures 
 in the House had gone forth, never to return.
 
 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 75 
 
 Benjamin Disraeli blossomed into the Earl of Beaconsfield amid 
 surroundings worthy of the occasion. He was, of course, forthwith 
 gazetted Earl, and took his title and his station. But he did not ap- 
 pear in public till the opening of Parliament in February of the follow- 
 ing year. The Queen, delighting to honor her favorite minister, 
 announced her intention 
 of opening Parliament in /f^ 'C 
 
 person. j \P^\U 
 
 At two o'clock the 
 ceremony was to take 
 place ; but, an hour ear- 
 lier, a brilliant assem- 
 bly was gathered in the 
 solemn light that falls 
 through windows richly 
 dight upon the floor of 
 the House of Lords. On 
 occasions when the Queen 
 opens Parliament in per- 
 son, noble lords chival- 
 rously cede their places 
 to their wives and daugh- 
 ters. Save the front row 
 of benches on either hand, 
 the floor of the House was 
 covered with ladies; and 
 they filled the galleries 
 running around the walls 
 •of the chamber, like a 
 garland of flowers. The 
 bishops, who usually sit 
 in all the glories of lawn 
 to the right of the wool- 
 sack, had abandoned their position in favor of the foreign ministers, 
 who, with their orders and sashes, formed a glittering mass of color. 
 First to come were the members of the Chinese legation, looking as if 
 they had stepped off the panel of a tea-chest. 
 
 In the front row of European diplomatists the tall form of Count 
 Miinster towered head and shoulder above his fellows, among whom 
 were the representatives of Russia, Italy, and Spain. The Japanese 
 
 Earl of Beaconsfield.
 
 76 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 and the Persian ministers occupied seats on the second row. Mr. 
 Pierrepoint, the American minister, sat conspicuous by the absolute 
 plainness of his dress. In a crowded assembly of diplomatists, he was 
 the only man who did not wear uniform, or display jewelled orders. 
 
 Just before two o'clock the Lord Chancellor, preceded by the mace, 
 entered, and took his seat on the woolsack. After sitting for a quarter 
 of an hour, a messenger conveyed a signal to his lordship, who imme- 
 diately arose, and left the House. 
 
 A whisper arose that the Queen was coming ; but it was not the 
 rose, though something that lived very near it. All eyes turned toward 
 the door, and beheld the Prince of Wales appear, leading the princess. 
 With a rustling sound, the ladies, who had hitherto sat with opera- 
 cloaks covering their shoulders, with one accord threw them off, and 
 rose to their feet, diamonds and rubies flashing as if the mines of 
 Golconda had been suddenly uncovered. 
 
 The prince wore the ugly red robes of a peer of the British Par- 
 liament, and seated himself on the chair to the right of the throne ; 
 the princess seating herself as well as was possible on the uncomfort- 
 ably high woolsack, with her face toward the throne, and her back to 
 the throng. Hardly had the noble lords and ladies reseated themselves 
 after receiving the heir-apparent and the princess, when a sound of 
 far-off trumpets announced the arrival of the Queen. 
 
 First came the pursuivant and the heralds, clad in gorgeous cloth 
 of gold. Immediately after strode a personage in a red cloak tipped 
 with ermine, bearing aloft a jewelled scabbard. There was a fixed 
 solemnity on the face, and an expression of impenetrable depth that 
 seemed familiar. Looking again, there was no mistaking the identity. 
 This was Benjamin, Earl of Beaconsfield. With eyes bent on the 
 ground, well-measured step, and sword rigidly upheld, the newest re- 
 cruit to the House of Lords solemnly walked forward, and took up his 
 position on the left of the throne. 
 
 Then came the Queen, followed by the Marquis of Winchester, 
 bearing the Cap of Maintenance ; while the Lord Chancellor took up 
 his position on the right hand of the Prince of Wales, ready, when the 
 time came, to serve his sovereign by reading her speech. 
 
 At a signal from the Queen, the lords and ladies, who had been 
 dutifully standing, resumed their seats ; and the messenger was dis- 
 charged to summon the faithful Commons. A long and awkward 
 pause followed, during which all eyes were centred, not upon the 
 Queen, but upon the figure on the left of the throne.
 
 SCENES IN THE BOUSE OF COMMONS. 7? 
 
 Lord Beaconsfield bore this ordeal as he had stood many others. 
 Motionless he remained by the side of the Queen, unfalteringly bear- 
 ing aloft the sword, and with no more expression on his face than he 
 had been accustomed to show in the House of Commons when Mr. 
 Gladstone had been fervently denouncing his policy, or convincingly 
 confuting his arguments. The ceremony did not occupy many min- 
 utes ; and, when it was over, Lord Beaconsfield turned as on a pivot, 
 and, still holding the sword aloft, marched out before the Queen, doubt- 
 less grateful that it was over, and that Benjamin Disraeli had been 
 properly introduced to his peers as the Earl of Beaconsfield. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE EXPULSION OF THE IRISH MEMBERS. 
 
 On Thursday, the 4th of February, 1881, the House of Commons 
 met under circumstances of extraordinary excitement. 
 
 At nine o'clock on the morning of the previous day, a continuous 
 sitting, forty-one hours long, had, by an action of the Speaker that will 
 forever remain memorable in the history of Parliament, been brought 
 to an abrupt conclusion. Parliament had been summoned a month 
 earlier than usual. 
 
 As was stated in the Queen's speech, the social condition of Ire- 
 land had assumed an alarming character. Agrarian crimes were mul- 
 tiplied far beyond the experience of recent years. The administration 
 of justice had been frustrated, and an extended system of terror had 
 been established, which paralyzed the exercise of private rights and 
 the performance of civil duties. 
 
 To meet this condition of affairs, a bill for the protection of life 
 and property in Ireland had been brought in at the earliest possible 
 moment. This had been made as late as possible by the tactics of the 
 Irish members, who ingeniously extended debate on the address. 
 
 On the 1st of February the House was still discussing the motion 
 for leave to introduce the Protection Bill, a stage of a measure which, 
 in ordinary circumstances, is purely formal. Now it had been resisted 
 for many days. 
 
 At midnight, on the first day of February, the subject having been 
 under discussion practically through three weeks, the customary motion 
 was made for the adjournment. But the patience of the House was
 
 78 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 now exhausted ; and uproarious cheering greeted the announcement 
 quietly made by Mr. Gladstone, that further motions for adjournment 
 would be resisted, and the division on the main question taken at the 
 current sitting. 
 
 What this meant every one knew, and members on both sides 
 quietly prepared for the struggle. The Irish members were thirty-five 
 strong. Against them was the whole House, full four hundred strong, 
 as was shown when divisions were taken. Argument had long been 
 abandoned on either side : now the issue was plainly one of physical 
 force. The question was no longer who had the better reason, but 
 who the stronger constitution, and the greater capacity for sitting up 
 all night. 
 
 From darkness to daylight the House sat. Noon found either Mr. 
 Biggar, Mr. O'Donnell, Mr. Parnell, or some other patriot, on his feet, 
 wearily saying over again what had been said a hundred times. 
 
 The air of the House was hot and heavy, and over all hung a 
 feeling of lassitude and infinite weariness. Motions for adjournment 
 succeeded each other in faithful regularity. Sometimes variety was 
 introduced by moving that the House be counted. 
 
 At midnight Sir Stafford Northcote rose, and demanded that the 
 deputy speaker should "name " Mr. Parnell, who then happened to be 
 on his legs. Mr. Lyon Playfair hesitating, the Conservative leader, 
 followed by all his colleagues on the front bench, and something like 
 half a hundred members from both sides of the House, hotly rose, and 
 strode forth, shaking from off his feet the dust of a House where such 
 doings were permitted. 
 
 At nine o'clock on Wednesday morning the House was still sitting. 
 All night long the babble had continued, with more or less volume of 
 sound, according as passion was momentarily raised, or remained dead 
 under the weight of sleep and infinite weariness. 
 
 Now, at nine o'clock, some flux of life pulsated through the cham- 
 ber. The relays had begun to come in, fresh from bed and bath and 
 breakfast. The men who had borne the heat and weariness of the 
 night, shook themselves together, and yawned, and made for the door. 
 But, reaching the lobby, they came back again with quickened step and 
 freshened vigor. 
 
 Something was going to happen. No one quite knew what ; but 
 with the quick intelligence which, at particular crises, runs through 
 the House of Commons like an electric shock, every one was certain 
 that momentous events were at hand.
 
 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 79 
 
 Mr. Gladstone, just then entering, was received with a ringing 
 cheer. Another cheer hailed the presence of the Speaker in the chair, 
 vacated by Mr. Lyon Playfair after his second night's work. 
 
 Mr. Biggar was on his legs at the moment, his rasping voice filling 
 
 The Expulsion of the Irish Members. 
 
 the chamber with nothingnesses, a pleasing process upon which he 
 had been engaged upwards of an hour. He looked up astonished at 
 the thunderous cheer. What he beheld was the Speaker on his feet, 
 bidding him, with peremptory gesture, be seated. Amid breathless 
 silence, the Speaker began to read from a paper that trembled like an 
 aspen-leaf in his hand. 
 
 For all his grave aspect and stolid quietude, Sir Henry Brand is a
 
 80 SCENES IN THE BOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 nervous man, and brings to the performance of his duty disturbing 
 consciousness of its momentous character. The task he was now 
 engaged upon was enough to shake the nerves of a stronger man. 
 What he had to do was to declare, on his own authority, that debate in 
 the House of Commons had exceeded reasonable limits, and that there 
 and then it must stop, and the arbitrament of the division lobby be 
 invoked. 
 
 Never, since Cromwell entered the House at the head of his men- 
 at-arms, had regular Parliamentary procedure been subject to this swift 
 and arbitrary cutting off by the mandate of a single man. 
 
 The Speaker got through his task with great dignity, being strength- 
 ened by the bursts of enthusiastic cheering that filled up each slight- 
 est pause in the reading. When he had made an end of speaking, he 
 proceeded, in customary manner and in ordinary tone, to put the 
 question. 
 
 The Irish members, dazed and stunned by this unexpected and 
 irresistible movement, made brief show of fight. Justin McCarthy 
 rose, and essayed to speak. The House literally roared at him, the 
 cries rising to a frantic pitch when a dozen Irishmen leaped up around 
 him, and, raising their hands in threatening gesture, cried aloud on 
 that " privilege " they had so sorely abused. Their cries were drowned 
 in shouts of " Order ! " and, after an exciting contest of several min- 
 utes, they bent their heads to the storm, with mock obeisance to the 
 Speaker, and left the House ; whereupon leave was given to bring in 
 the Protection Bill. 
 
 On the next night the excitement in Parliament, and in the public 
 mind, reached even a higher pitch. With that curious fatality that 
 marked the administration of Irish affairs under Mr. Forster, this very 
 day had been selected for taking a step, which, in the mildest mood, 
 would have exasperated the Irish members. 
 
 Michael Davitt had been arrested, and thirty-five Irishmen were 
 determined to know the reason why. The House presented a crowded 
 and animated appearance. Every seat on the floor was filled, the gal- 
 leries were crowded, and a throng stood at the bar. The peers' gallery, 
 which sometimes presents open spaces, striking in a crowded House, 
 was so full, that royalty in the person of the Duke of Cambridge stood 
 forlorn in the doorway. 
 
 So profound is the sense of royalty in the House of Peers, that any 
 one of the belted earls, whose lineage goes farther back than the 
 Guelphs, would gladly have vacated his seat in favor of the royal duke.
 
 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 8 1 
 
 But, alas ! the duke was jammed in the doorway. The peers, who came 
 early, and were seated, were packed like so many herrings in a barrel. 
 No one could move, and royalty was fain to stand whilst the peers 
 of the realm more or less conveniently sat. 
 
 The fight began by Mr. Parnell asking whether it was true that 
 Michael Davitt had been arrested. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the Home Secretary, with commendable brevity. 
 
 Mr. Parnell wished to enter into controversy on the spot, but was 
 ruled out of order ; and presently Mr. Gladstone rose to move a new 
 standing order against obstruction, suggested by the events of the 
 previous week. 
 
 Then John Dillon came to the front, and none better could have 
 been chosen for the occasion. Free by birth and social surroundings 
 from the noisy vulgarity that makes some of his colleagues insuffer- 
 able, it might reasonably have been expected that he would perform 
 his part with dignity. This he assuredly did. He had made up his 
 mind for a death-struggle with the authority of the House, but he 
 neither ranted nor raved. He simply stood with folded arms and stern, 
 set face, disputing with the prime minister the right of addressing the 
 House. 
 
 Of course they would not hear him, and he knew they would not. 
 But, none the less, he stood there, facing the infuriated assembly, and 
 defying the more quietly assumed authority of the Chair. He could 
 not make himself heard. To sit down would have been to surrender. 
 To remain standing, with the Speaker on his feet, was a defiance of an 
 elementary and inexorable rule of order. Having made up his mind 
 to defy the House, and take the consequences, he succeeded by the 
 simplest plan in which there was the least loss of dignity. As he 
 would not sit down, he was " named " as he stood there, always with 
 folded arms, deathly pale face, and quiet manner. 
 
 Then followed the process of expulsion, quickly followed by that 
 of Mr. Parnell and Mr. Finigan. This process took time, as a division 
 was challenged on every motion of suspension. Twenty minutes at 
 least was occupied on each event, and here was a simple method at 
 hand to give the House another all-night sitting. 
 
 In an evil moment for themselves, the Irish members hit upon a 
 new plan of obstructing. They declined to go out into the division 
 lobby, remaining seated in disobedience to the Speaker's command to 
 clear the House. On this they were expelled in a body ; and, at half- 
 past eight, Mr. Gladstone went back to the first sentence of the speech
 
 82 SCENES IN THE BOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 he had commenced at five o'clock, finishing it now amidst a quietude 
 and an orderliness about which there seemed something uncanny. 
 
 Before the House rose, it passed a new standing order, which dealt 
 so heavy a blow at obstruction that it has never since reached the 
 sublime heights attained at this memorable epoch. 
 
 III. 
 
 MR. BRADLAUGH — ENTRANCES AND EXITS. 
 
 Mr. Bradlaugh has had many exits and entrances to the House 
 of Commons, the scenes varying only in intensity. There has been 
 another matter in which variety has been introduced. Sometimes the 
 member for Northampton has, after the proverbial manner of March, 
 come in like a lion, and gone out like a lamb. At other times this 
 procedure has been reversed ; and Mr. Bradlaugh, advancing, with 
 mincing step and bland smile, towards the table, with intent to take 
 the oath, has gone out, raging and panting, captive of the spear of the 
 sergeant-at-arms. 
 
 Like some other great storms, the Bradlaugh business, with which 
 the House has intermittently battled through three sessions, began 
 very quietly. It was a cloud no bigger than a man's hand, whence grew 
 the violent and prolonged storm. 
 
 When, in May, 1880, the newly elected Parliament, which had swept 
 away, by a sudden stroke, the powerful administration of Lord Bea- 
 consfield, met for the ceremony of swearing in, Mr. Bradlaugh appeared 
 among the throng. He had already acquired a national reputation — 
 or, rather, notoriety — for the boldness of his declarations on theologi- 
 cal opinions. Northampton had triumphantly established its eccen- 
 tricity by returning him as the colleague of Mr. Labouchere. 
 
 The swearing in of a new Parliament is carried on in a wholesale 
 manner, which seems to invite irregularity. In the case of bye-elec- 
 tions, the new member is sworn in with a certain deliberateness that 
 invests the proceeding with importance. He is brought up to the table 
 by two members, who undertake to introduce him ; and there, in the 
 presence of a House always full at this hour of the evening, he has 
 the oath administered. 
 
 When six hundred and fifty gentlemen come together for the first 
 time to take the oath of fealty, it is done by a sort of wholesale process, 
 forty or fifty being sworn in together.
 
 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 83 
 
 Mr. Bradlaugh, had he been so minded, might, without remark, have 
 taken his part in this not very impressive ceremony. Or, as has hap- 
 pened within my own knowledge in at least one case, he need not 
 have taken the oath at all. It is, at this stage, no one's business to 
 inquire. No record is kept ; and a member may, if he please, take the 
 oath early, and take it often, or may altogether abstain. 
 
 The greater activity of Lord Randolph Churchill has obscured more 
 modest claims to notice. But it should be said that to Sir Henry Wolff 
 is due the Bradlaugh issue ; and he unconsciously laid the foundations 
 of the famous Fourth Party, to which presently were to flock Lord 
 Randolph Churchill and Mr. Jorst. It was he, who, springing up from 
 a seat below the gangway, bodily interposed when Mr. Bradlaugh made 
 the first of those raids upon the table, which, in after-months, made 
 him the most familiar figure in the House. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone, and his colleagues of the cabinet, were not in the 
 House when the question first arose. Having accepted office, they 
 were absent, undergoing the process of re-election. 
 
 A minor minister was instructed to meet the case by the familiar 
 process of moving for a select committee to inquire into precedence, 
 and there it was thought the matter would end. 
 
 But in the brief interval, during which the House had adjourned 
 for the re-election of ministers, the question had grown as a fire grows 
 when it has a fine old seasoned timber barn to play upon. 
 
 When the House re-assembled, it was plain enough that mischief 
 was brewing. Sir Stafford Northcote, and the other leaders of the 
 opposition, did not quite know what to do, which gave the earliest 
 proof that men like Sir Henry Wolff and Lord Randolph Churchill 
 more truly gauged the temper of Conservatism in opposition. 
 
 Mr. Bradlaugh met the objection to his making affirmation by blandly 
 offering to take the oath. On this, Sir Henry Wolff moved that the 
 oath be not administered, which was rejected by a small majority. Six 
 weeks later, the growth of opinion was manifested when, in a crowded 
 House, and amid a scene of much excitement, two hundred and seventy- 
 five voted against admitting Mr. Bradlaugh on any terms, and two hun- 
 dred and thirty voted that he be permitted to make affirmation. 
 
 The next day was Wednesday, when the House meets at noon. 
 Usually the chamber is so empty that there is difficulty in finding forty 
 members to make a House. On this day every seat was filled, and 
 there was everywhere that air of expectation which marks great epochs 
 in the House of Commons.
 
 84 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 Mr. Bradlaugh arrived some minutes before noon, and waited in the 
 lobby till prayers were concluded. Just on the stroke of half-past 
 twelve, when members had settled down in their places, when the last 
 " Amen " had been uttered, and when the skirts of the chaplain had 
 just vanished through the doorway, the massive, fleshy figure of Mr. 
 Bradlaugh was seen making straight for the table. 
 
 The Speaker informed him of the decision arrived at by the House 
 at an early hour of the morning, and ordered him to retire. 
 
 Mr. Bradlaugh, as through subsequent episodes, showed that he is 
 nothing if not orderly ; and, bowing low to authority, he promptly re- 
 tired, whilst Mr. Labouchere submitted the proposition that he be 
 heard at the bar. This was agreed to without controversy. The bar 
 of the House of Commons, of which so much is written in history, 
 has an actual and visible existence. It is a brass pole, which shuts up 
 in telescopic fashion through the back of the cross-benches at the 
 entrance. 
 
 The agitated messengers had scarcely drawn from its retreat this 
 brass pole, which means so much, and is shut up within so little, than 
 Mr. Bradlaugh strode in, and stood before it. It presently became 
 clear, that, for the purpose of effective delivery of his speech, the adver- 
 saries of the outlawed member had provided him with a singular 
 advantage. Instead of speaking in the face of one-half of his audi- 
 ence, himself cooped up with other members in a crowded bench, he 
 now stood literally on the floor of the House, facing the crowded 
 historic assembly, "one against six hundred," as he said. 
 
 Beginning in a low tone of voice, he craved the indulgence of the 
 House whilst he showed cause against the enactment of the resolution 
 refusing him admission. He. was there ready to fulfil every form of 
 the House, and to perform every duty commanded of him by his con- 
 stituents. At present he was standing at the bar of the House, plead- 
 ing for justice ; "but," he added, in a voice of thunder, pointing toward 
 the benches under the gangway, to the right of the Speaker, " it is 
 there I should plead." 
 
 " What are you going to do with me ? " he asked, suddenly dropping 
 his voice from the height of passion, to which it had been uplifted, 
 and, leaning a little on the bar, looked, with placid interest, round the 
 House, as if the question were one in which he was only remotely in- 
 terested. Would they declare the seat vacant ? Well, he would be 
 again returned. And what next ? 
 
 " I have no desire to wrestle with you for justice," he continued,
 
 SCENES IN THE BOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 85 
 
 holding both hands out over the bar with deprecating gesture ; " but, 
 if the struggle is forced by the House, I will fearlessly and hopefully 
 submit the cause to a tribunal higher than this great assembly, and 
 will ask public opinion to decide between you. and me." This said, 
 Mr. Bradlaugh turned, and left the House 
 
 Mr. Bradlaugh. 
 
 Members, however, had not seen the last of him. They had already 
 voted that admission should be refused to him ; and, as Sir Stafford 
 Northcote said, it did not seem that there was any occasion to take new 
 steps, or to hold any further communication with Mr. Bradlaugh. 
 
 The Speaker, however, ruled that Mr. Bradlaugh should be called 
 in, and have formally communicated to him the decision of the House. 
 This was done. The Speaker briefly recited the events of the sitting,
 
 86 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 and concluded by commanding the member from Northampton to 
 withdraw. 
 
 " I beg, respectfully, to insist upon my right as duly elected mem- 
 ber for Northampton," Mr. Bradlaugh composedly replied. " I beg 
 you to administer the oath, and I respectfully refuse to withdraw." 
 
 Never, since the House was constituted, had there been an inci- 
 dent like this. The Speaker was bearded in his chair, and the House 
 stood aghast at the enormity of the offence. The sergeant-at-arms 
 was ordered to remove Mr. Bradlaugh. At the touch of the represen- 
 tative of the Queen, Mr. Bradlaugh, consumed by anxiety that every 
 thing should be in order, announced that he was prepared to go as far 
 as the bar, but promised immediately to return. This undertaking he 
 faithfully fulfilled. Having quietly accompanied the sergeant-at-arms 
 to the bar, he abruptly turned, and, moving again toward the table, he, 
 with a sweeping gesture of his right hand, claimed the right, deputed 
 to him by the electors of Northampton, to take his seat. 
 
 The sergeant-at-arms (who is only ten years younger than the cen- 
 tury) gallantly tackled him. But the burly intruder shook him off as 
 if he had been a fly, and strode onward, amid a scene of indescribable 
 excitement. Half a dozen members were addressing the Chair in as 
 many parts of the House. 
 
 The Speaker was on his feet. Members were shouting and ges- 
 ticulating ; and here, in the very centre of the floor, with stout legs 
 firmly set apart, stood Mr. Bradlaugh, determined and defiant. In the 
 end, he was got comfortably off to the Clock Tower, in custody of the 
 sergeant-at-arms, whence, a few days later, he was entreated by his 
 jailers to go forth, as in olden times was the apostle Paul. 
 
 It were too long a story to follow up Mr. Bradlaugh's subsequent 
 advances. It came to be quite a common incident of a month's ses- 
 sion, that the member for Northampton should march up to the table, 
 and then back, accompanied by the sergeant-at-arms. In the first week 
 of the new session of 1882, he introduced some variation into the pro- 
 ceedings by administering the oath to himself ; whereupon he accom- 
 plished another exit, this time of a more uproarious character, being 
 delivered out into the Palace Yard, panting, hatless, and ragged.
 
 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 87 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE IRISH LAND-BILL OF 1881. 
 
 On occasions when Mr. Gladstone is charged with the delivery of 
 important messages from the House of Commons, there is always a 
 great gathering of whatever sections of the public can, whether of 
 right or of good fortune, obtain access to the chamber. At such times 
 the House of Commons is, in regard of cubic measurement, altogether 
 inadequate. If, by any strange impulse, the whole of the six hundred 
 and fifty-eight members, of which the House is composed, were to 
 come down on a given night, and claim their seats, the result would be 
 most calamitous. 
 
 Happily, it rarely occurs to a maximum exceeding five hundred 
 members simultaneously to claim sitting-room in the House. The 
 division-lists not infrequently show an aggregate in excess of this num- 
 ber. But, because members are present at a division, it does not fol- 
 low that they have sat through a debate. Some of the younger and 
 more enthusiastic thus complete the round of duty. The older and 
 wiser, impelled by growing years to take additional care of their health, 
 mental and physical, judiciously divide the labor. They shirk the 
 speeches, and conscientiously vote on the question that has been 
 debated. 
 
 On the 8th of April, 1881, when Mr. Gladstone brought in the Irish 
 Land-Bill of the year, there were something over five hundred members 
 present. Those who could not find room on the floor, sought the gal- 
 leries, which technically are supposed to be outside the House. A 
 member can neither address the House from them, nor take part in 
 any division, if the question has been put whilst he is seated there. 
 But it is a good place to hear from, more especially if a place be 
 secured in the first row of the gallery facing the orator. 
 
 The inadequate galleries allotted to the service of the general pub- 
 lic were also crowded. Moreover, on this night was indicated, for the 
 first time, that profound interest in the bill on the part of the House 
 of Lords which was maintained throughout the subsequent wearisome 
 discussion. 
 
 Land-owners with vast possessions in Ireland, naturally were at- 
 tracted by curiosity to hear the details of a measure that directly 
 affected their fortunes. Other peers, more happily blessed with land
 
 88 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 in England or Scotland, were scarcely less profoundly interested in a 
 measure which their instinct told them might hereafter, in some modi- 
 fied form, be applied to Great Britain. 
 
 On this night, and on all succeeding nights, whenever a critical 
 point or stage of the Land Bill was reached, the section of the gallery 
 allotted to the House of Lords was sure to be crowded with deeply 
 interested auditors. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone's speeches, on occasions like this, rarely fall below 
 popular expectation, which is pitched very high. There is no public 
 speaker in English political life who has, in equal measure, the gift of 
 so handling and marshalling details as to make an intricate problem 
 clear to the meanest intelligence. 
 
 Of many points of divergence of character between Lord Beacons- 
 field and Mr. Gladstone, one was their way of regarding facts. To 
 Lord Beaconsfield, facts were always a trouble : to Mr. Gladstone, they 
 are ever a delight. Lord Beaconsfield's imagination, touched with the 
 effulgence of the Eastern sun, pitifully hobbled when chained to dry 
 details and masses of figures. Imagination is one of the least promi- 
 nent among Mr. Gladstone's characteristics. He has all a Scotchman's 
 love for hard, dry facts ; though, with something more than a Scotch- 
 man's genius, he is enabled to surround them with a glamour of elo- 
 quence that makes their study as interesting as a reading from 
 " Lothair." 
 
 Of late years Mr. Gladstone has refrained from those great efforts 
 of oratory, which, up to 1874, he was wont to engage upon when intro- 
 ducing great subjects to the House of Commons. 
 
 It is a notable fact, that the last of a series of brilliant budgets was 
 explained in the House of Commons in a speech that concluded with- 
 out a peroration. 
 
 Like Mr. Bright, and like all great orators, Mr. Gladstone, through 
 his fifty years of public speaking, has been accustomed to close his 
 speeches with some exquisitely modulated sentence, that should, as his 
 voice was hushed, dwell on the ears of his audience like echoes of 
 sweet music. Some of his perorations are historical, have been learned 
 off by heart by thousands, and have taken their places among favored 
 passages of the English language. It seemed to those who heard the 
 last budget speech, that changes were at hand when the great financier 
 could abruptly resume his seat after some commonplace remark in 
 supplement of his exposition. 
 
 The speech on introducing the new Irish Land-Bill was not pitched
 
 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 89 
 
 on a very high key. Mr. Gladstone had in his hand the notes of an 
 extensive and elaborate scheme. The issues at stake were stupendous, 
 the responsibility of failure or success enormous. What he had to do 
 was to make it absolutely clear, not only to the listening House, but 
 to the vast public out- 
 side, and to the jealous 
 critics across the Chan- 
 nel. 
 
 Perhaps the premier 
 himself was not at this 
 time strung on a very 
 high key. There were 
 dissensions in the cabi- 
 net, presently to be 
 disclosed in the retire- 
 ment of the Duke of 
 Argyle and the Marquis 
 of Lansdowne. There 
 were the Radicals, ex 
 pecting too much ; the 
 Conservatives, wanting 
 to see performed too 
 little ; and the Land- 
 Leaguers, determined 
 to be dissatisfied with 
 any thing. 
 
 Moreover, Mr. Glad- 
 stone himself was not 
 in robust health. He 
 had not long returned 
 to the House after the 
 
 accident which befell him when he slipped in the snow on entering his 
 carriage, and received an ugly wound. 
 
 The House knew all about the wound, having literally seen it in 
 the flesh. Only a few weeks earlier, when Mr. Gladstone returned to 
 the House after a brief withdrawal, he wore a black skull-cap. One 
 night there had been a false alarm. Mr. Biggar had tried to count out 
 the House, or Lord Randolph Churchill had sprung a division at an 
 awkward time. 
 
 The division-bell ringing, members flocked in from all parts, and 
 
 Mr. Gladstone.
 
 90 SCENES IN THE BOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 were astounded to see the premier darting in from behind the Speaker's 
 chair with all the agility of seventy-one, and on his bald crown a gigan- 
 tic star-shaped diagram of diachylum. In the hurry of the moment, 
 and prompt at the call of duty, he had forgotten to put on his skull- 
 cap, and presented this alarming spectacle to the astounded Commons 
 of England. 
 
 The scars were healing up now ; and the premier stood, without 
 skull-cap or diachylum, discoursing on the perennial miseries of Ire- 
 land and the perpetual cry for relief. He spoke for a trifle under two 
 hours, a singular compression for him who, on these occasions, was 
 wont luxuriantly to revel in all kinds of by-paths suggested by chance 
 phrases. He kept closely to his text, which was, in its lesser applica- 
 tion, to demonstrate the necessity for fresh legislation on the Land 
 Question, and, next, to explain minutely the details of the remediable 
 measure. 
 
 That he succeeded was testified to by the rapt attention of the 
 assembly, and by the complete manner in which the members, too, held 
 in their hands the whole threads of the scheme. But for lofty lan- 
 guage, and the side-lights of glowing fancy, this speech would not com- 
 pare with many that have gone before. 
 
 Yet here is the peroration, which, even in all the bareness of type, 
 is charming : — 
 
 "Walking in the path of justice," he said, "we cannot err. Guided 
 by that light, we are safe. Every step we take upon our road brings 
 us nearer to the goal ; and every obstacle, though it seem for the mo- 
 ment unsurmountable, can only for a little while retard, and never can 
 defeat, the final triumph." 
 
 As the orator spoke these words, he threw, both into his voice and 
 bearing, a certain solemnity which recalls the ideal of the prophets of 
 old. The fire of argument was allowed suddenly to die out. The 
 eager, almost passionate way, in which he had pursued controversial 
 points, was dropped. Standing erect, with head slightly thrown back, 
 and hands dropped to his side, he spoke these words in a voice com- 
 paratively low, and slightly trembling with emotion. There was, for 
 briefest space, a pause in the crowded House as he made an end of 
 speaking, and resumed his seat. Then the cheers, breaking forth with 
 thunderous force, told how successfully he had played upon this incom- 
 parable audience. 
 
 In the House of Commons, it is usual for leave to introduce a bill 
 to be given as a matter of course. No debate followed on Mr. Glad-
 
 SCENES IN THE BOUSE OF COMMONS. 91 
 
 stone's speech, to which, with that manly generosity that so aggravates 
 some of his followers, Sir Stafford Northcote paid the tribute of his 
 unfeigned admiration. 
 
 In clue time, the second reading was moved ; and then commenced 
 a wearisome and purposeless debate, which lasted over several weeks. 
 
 The position of parties was peculiar. The Conservatives, after long 
 hesitation, had decided not to meet the motion for the second reading 
 with a direct negative. They had accepted a wordy amendment of 
 Lord Elcho's, and found this fought in a half-hearted way. Mr. Par- 
 nell, in even a more awkward position, took a more curiously middle 
 course. It was not for Irish members to oppose a piece of legislation, 
 the liberality of which arrayed against it the whole force of the land- 
 lords. Yet Mr. Parnell could not bring himself to support the gov- 
 ernment that was about to confer this boon upon Ireland. He had 
 announced his intention of walking out when the division was called. 
 In view of this kind of opposition, the issue was a foregone conclusion, 
 and all that was waited for was the division. 
 
 At last this came at two o'clock on the morning of the 22d of 
 May. The night had been as dull as any that had preceded it. Now, 
 in anticipation of the division, the House was thronged with members 
 growing increasingly indignant at the delays interposed. 
 
 At last the Speaker was on his feet, the question put, and the 
 House cleared for a division. The Irish members rose in a body, and 
 left the House ; Mr. Parnell bringing up in the rear, and smiling scorn- 
 fully at the mocking laughter and ironical cheering with which this 
 comedy was watched. 
 
 A crowd of members gathered at the bar. The ministerial benches 
 were filled to their utmost capacity. On the treasurer's bench sat Mr. 
 Gladstone, looking pale, and infinitely wearied. He had been engaged, 
 during the past hour, in the effort to write his nightly letter to the 
 Queen, summarizing the course of debate, the endeavor being ham- 
 pered by the exciting scenes constantly breaking forth. Members 
 streamed slowly out to the division, and trickled back, first in twos and 
 threes, then in a long stream that occasionally became dammed at the 
 bar. The tellers coming in, the Ministerial whip read out the figures : 
 " For Lord Elcho's amendment, one hundred and seventy-six against 
 three hundred and fifty-two." By two to one the bill was carried, and 
 cheer after cheer rose from the Liberal benches at a majority so 
 unexpectedly large. 
 
 There was no one to cry " No ! " to the proposal for the second
 
 92 SCENES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 reading ; and, the work accomplished, members streamed out into 
 Palace Yard, excitedly discussing the result. It seemed a long stride 
 from the heated chamber and the noisy discussion into the cool spring 
 morning. In the south, the crescent moon shone in a sea of deepest 
 azure. In the east, the blue was paling into opal, and a few fleecy 
 clouds were just touched with rose-tint. Day was breaking over the 
 sleeping city ; and members went home, hoping and believing that day 
 was at last breaking for long unhappy Ireland. 
 
 Thirteen months later the House of Commons gathered in solemn 
 silence to hear Mr. Thornton, in broken voice, deplore the cruel cut- 
 ting-off of Lord Frederick Cavendish, a murderous deed which was the 
 immediate prelude of a fresh Coercion Bill and a new Land Act.
 
 LORD BEACONSFIELD. 
 
 By CANON F. W. FARRAR. 
 
 MY object is to call the attention of young men to some of the 
 elements of the late Lord Beaconsfield's greatness, and some 
 of the high qualities by which he achieved his memorable career. As 
 a rule, the character of English statesmen in the last two or three 
 generations has been a lofty character. As a rule, it has maintained, 
 in all regions of public life, the standard of English honor and English 
 disinterestedness. 
 
 We think with admiration of Chatham's splendid vehemence, of 
 Pitt's inextinguishable hope, of Percival's sincere religion, of Burke's 
 philosophic genius, of Fox's burning enthusiasm, of Wilberforce's hal- 
 lowed philanthropy, of Grattan's undaunted patriotism, of Canning's 
 brilliant gayety, of Peel's pure life, of Palmerston's genial kindness, of 
 Russell's high-toned magnanimity, of that great soldier " whose gray- 
 haired virtue was a grander thing than even Waterloo." 
 
 Lord Ellenborough says, in his diary, " The more I know of the 
 interior of politics, the more shabby and personal the motives of men 
 appear." But the poorness of the motive may be due to the fault of 
 the observer ; and although I should be far from representing the char- 
 acter of Lord Beaconsfield as being in any sense an ideal character, or 
 his career as an ideal career, yet I think that it is a noble instinct which 
 makes us desire to make men's virtues live in brass while we write their 
 evil manners in water. 
 
 However serious may have been the faults of Benjamin Disraeli, 
 Envy herself will, I think, admit that he had qualities which leave 
 large room for honest praise. It is about one or two of these qualities 
 that I now propose to write. 
 
 l. Notice, for instance, the courage with which he stood by his 
 race. He never shrank from the name of Jew. He met, with open 
 
 93
 
 94 LORD BEACONSFIELD. 
 
 scorn, the sneer of those who scoffed at what he claimed as a distinc- 
 tion. He felt that it must indeed be a great race of which alone it 
 could be said that it gave a prime minister to Pharaoh in Egypt four 
 thousand years ago, and a prime minister to Darius in Persia two thou- 
 sand five hundred years ago, and a prime minister to Queen Victoria 
 in the England of 1879. 
 
 While many a man is meanly ashamed of his poor relations, let it 
 be recorded to the honor of Benjamin Disraeli, that, throughout a long 
 career, he never blushed to own brotherhood with an insulted nation. 
 
 2. Again, may we not admire the reticence of his later years, and 
 the almost unbroken silence and self-control with which, during his 
 premiership, he endured a storm of obloquy ? At more than one 
 period of his life, he was subject to attacks of the most envenomed 
 bitterness, and to accusations of which some might have been rebutted 
 by a word. But, in the closing period of his career, he generally left 
 the word unspoken, and trusted that his countrymen would, in the long- 
 run, judge with fairness of his acts and motives. 
 
 " The right honorable gentleman," I once heard him say, after a 
 severe attack from Mr. Robert Lowe (now Lord Sherbrooke) in the 
 House of Commons, " was extremely exuberant in his comments upon 
 my character and career. I have sat in this House more than thirty 
 years, and can truly say, that, during that time, comments upon my 
 character and career have been tolerably free. But the House has 
 been the jury of my life, and it allows me here to address it ; and, 
 therefore, here is not the place in which I think it necessary to justify 
 myself." 
 
 And I think that this power of remaining silent under attacks 
 arose from his superiority to transient popularity. " They say. What 
 say they ? Let them say ! " is a motto which would well have suited 
 his strong self-reliance. 
 
 In one of his latest speeches, he expressed his contempt for that 
 incessant babblement of crude condemnations, that " weak, washy, 
 everlasting flood " of dogmatism upon matters of which the writers 
 are profoundly ignorant, which, in one of his characteristic phrases, he 
 called "the harebrained chatter of irresponsible frivolity." 
 
 He might have fairly said, with the great Lord Mansfield, " I will 
 do my duty unawed. What am I to fear ? Is it that mcndax infamia 
 from the press which daily coins false facts and false motives ? The 
 lies of calumny carry no terror to me. I wish popularity ; but it is 
 that popularity which follows, not which is run after. It is that popu-
 
 LORD BEACONSFIELD. 
 
 95 
 
 larity which, sooner or later, never fails to do justice to the pursuit of 
 noble ends by noble means." 
 
 I am sure that not one of his contemporaries surpassed Lord Bea- 
 
 Lord Beaconsfield. 
 
 consfield in his indifference to that "mushroom popularity which is 
 raised without merit, and lost without a crime ; " that present, passing, 
 evanescent popularity which is but the " echo of folly and the shadow 
 of renown," and which often falls for a brief season to the meanest of 
 mankind.
 
 96 LORD BEAC0NSF1ELD. 
 
 3. Again, it was the clearly defined individuality of Lord Beacons- 
 field which deepened the admiration of his contemporaries. And, in 
 days like these, this isolation, this aloofness, this markedness of char- 
 acter, are the more valuable because they are so rare. 
 
 We are all getting more and more apt to run in grooves ; to say 
 the same things in the same phrases ; to do the same things in the 
 same ways ; to echo the same current cries ; to adopt the same foolish 
 fashions ; to shout in chorus against the unpopular man or the unpopu- 
 lar opinion of the hour ; to pride ourselves on being at the dead level 
 of conventionalism and mediocrity ; to take the dictum of the majority 
 for an oracle, and the shout of the noisiest for truths. 
 
 Let us hail a cedar here and there among the fir-trees, — much 
 more amid these wind-shaken reeds of the wilderness, these quivering 
 grasses of the plain ! We are all such echoes and reflections of one 
 another, such repeaters of mechanical shibboleths, and slaves of gen- 
 eral traditions, that it is a gain to national life when we find a man, 
 who, amid the jostlings of opinion, will believe in himself, his own 
 genius, his own determination ; who looks for the star of his destiny in 
 his own bosom ; who, knowing that the view of the multitude does but 
 represent the opinion of the collective mediocrity, dares to be in the 
 right with two or three. 
 
 Honor to the man who feels the dignity of separate manhood ! who 
 can hold his own in silence among angry opposites, and, whether suc- 
 cessful or unsuccessful, can still be true to, can still fall back upon, 
 himself ! 
 
 4. In this marked individuality, nothing was more remarkable than 
 Lord Beaconsfield's strength of will. He has set to many a genera- 
 tion an example of what steadfastness can do. Young men may learn 
 from him how invincible is the spirit which has the strength to say, 
 " I will." 
 
 Nothing is more deplorable than the feebleness, the placidity, the 
 limpness of purpose, of many of our youths. They live at haphazard : 
 they live from hand to mouth, without reverence, without purpose, with- 
 out self-denial, without force. They are all straw : they have no iron 
 in them. They would like distinction very well if it dropped into 
 their mouths ; but they lack the manly fibre, the stern self-control, the 
 never-wearied patience, the inflexible determination, the unwavering 
 adaptation of means to ends, by which success is won. 
 
 Still more do too many of them lack the strenuous wisdom which 
 takes the measure of earthly success, and despises it, and sees the
 
 LORD BEACONSFJELD. 97 
 
 most eternal and magnificent of all successes in the beatitude of pov- 
 erty bravely borne for a noble cause, and in the anguish of that 
 martyrdom which is virtue fighting to the death for truth. 
 
 But even for earthly success, much more for the divine success, 
 energy is indispensable. It is only to the energetic man that the 
 blessed immortals are swift : while the youth who chooses indolence, 
 and selfish pleasures, and vulgar comfort, will, alas ! give back to his 
 Creator at the last perhaps not even his one talent in a napkin ; per- 
 haps, alas ! nothing but " the dust of his body and the shipwreck of 
 his soul." 
 
 5. Another admirable feature of his life was, that this fine power 
 of will, this battle-brunt and manhood of his nature, was undaunted by 
 difficulties. 
 
 Truly, if he had feared difficulties, he would not have died an ac- 
 knowledged leader of men. A Jew, the son of an author of limited 
 means, without rank, without connections, without public-school train- 
 ing, without university education, not even baptized till he was about 
 fourteen, beginning life as an articled clerk, long hampered by debts, 
 with no advantages of person, with no overwhelming power of oratory, 
 with some disadvantages of manner, he yet determined to become the 
 leader of the proudest aristocracy in the world. 
 
 By steady perseverance, by genius, by patience, by watchfulness, by 
 inextinguishable resolve and daring, he burst his way through all these 
 thorny obstacles, and died an earl, a Knight of the Garter, a man who 
 had swayed cabinets and parliaments and foreign congresses, the friend 
 of his sovereign, and the favorite of the nation. 
 
 And I think that one reason why the people of England admired 
 and loved him, whatever may have been his faults, was because of this 
 resolution, which ploughed its way through so many rude detractions, 
 and would not be subdued, even by failures. 
 
 In opening life, his mistakes, his inconsistencies, his quarrels, were 
 such as would have crushed any ordinary man. But he never quailed, 
 though he had to fight, often single-handed, against a multitude of 
 most formidable antagonists. 
 
 When his first speech, in the House of Commons, was met by 
 every possible manifestation of opposition and ridicule, and at last 
 drowned in uproar, every one knows how, stopping in the middle of a 
 sentence, he lifted his hand, and cried, in the full tones of a voice 
 which rose above the tumult, — 
 
 " I have begun several times many things, and yet have often sue-
 
 98 LORD BEACONSFIELD. 
 
 ceeded at last. I will sit down now, but the time will come when you 
 shall hear me!" 
 
 " Was I," he said, in recounting the incident to his constituents at 
 Maidstone, "to yield to this insulting derision like a child or a pol- 
 troon ? No. When I sat down, I sent them my defiance. There are 
 emergencies in which it becomes necessary to show that a man will 
 not be crushed. I trust I showed, under unparalleled interruption, the 
 spirit of a man, and the generosity of a combatant who does not soon 
 lose his temper." 
 
 He fulfilled his own prophecy. For years he fought unquelled the 
 losing battle of a minority, often querulous, and often disheartened, of 
 which he was always the leader, and never the slave. When he was 
 driven from office in 1852, by the defeat of his budget, he left the 
 House at early dawn as gay and fresh as if he had achieved a great 
 victory. 
 
 Let young men at least learn from him not to be easily daunted. 
 The world comes round for him who knows how to wait ; and, as for 
 difficulties to the young man and to the strong will, they ought to be 
 no more than the threads of gossamer, sparkling with dewdrops, which 
 we break away by thousands as we stride through the morning-fields. 
 
 I will mention but one more characteristic of this eminent man. 
 It was, that, even from boyhood, he aimed at nothing short of the high- 
 est power. Call it personal ambition if you will, and admit that per- 
 sonal ambition, unless it be redeemed by purer motives, is an earthliness 
 and an infirmity. Yet admit, also, that, when a man docs aspire, it is 
 well that he should aim at something loftier than the sluggish ease of 
 the suburban villa, or the comfortable vulgarity of the selfish million- 
 naire. 
 
 Speaking to youths at Manchester, Lord Beaconsfield said, " I give 
 to them that counsel which I have ever given to youth. I tell them 
 to aspire. I believe that the youth who does not look up, will look 
 down ; and that the spirit which does not dare to soar, is destined, per- 
 haps, to grovel." 
 
 But it was not a purely selfish ambition to which he urged them. 
 "You will be called," he said, "to great duties. Remember what has 
 been done for you. Remember, that, when the inheritance devolves 
 upon you, you are not only to enjoy, but to improve. You will some 
 day succeed to the high places of this great community. Recollect 
 those who lighted the way for you ; and when you have wealth, when 
 you have authority, when you have power, let it not be said that you
 
 LORD BEACONSFIELD. 99 
 
 were deficient in public virtue or public spirit. When the torch is 
 delivered to you, do you also light the path of human progress to edu- 
 cated man." 
 
 I will add but one last word. Earthly success does not and can not 
 satisfy. If any man be not at peace with God, then wealth, power, 
 fame, are but as dust in the night. They do not last : they are but 
 the more splendid toys of grown-up children. They are but emptiness, 
 and vexation of spirit ; and we have no reason to regret that they are 
 beyond the reach of most of us. 
 
 But things infinitely more precious and enduring are within the 
 reach of us all, — even peace with God, and a conscience void of offence 
 towards God and towards man. 
 
 The energy which may fail to win the rewards which men envy 
 may place us on a mountain height, from which we can look down on 
 the inch-high distinctions of this passing world. 
 
 " Why do ye toil to register your names 
 On icy pillars which soon melt away ? 
 True honor is not here."
 
 THE PRINCE OF WALES AT HOME. 
 
 By ARCHIBALD FORBES. 
 
 WHEN the Prince of Wales came of age, nineteen years ago, 
 there stood at his credit, accumulated during his minority from 
 the revenues of the Duchy of Cornwall, an apanage of the Prince of 
 Wales, a sum of about two million five hundred dollars. There is no 
 adequate mansion on the Cornish estates ; and, even if there were, 
 Cornwall is in so remote a corner of England as to disqualify a man- 
 sion there for being a suitable residence for the heir-apparent. 
 
 It was determined by the Queen and her ministry of the day, of 
 which Lord Palmerston was the head, to invest a large proportion 
 of the prince's minority accumulations in the purchase of a landed 
 estate for his Royal Highness ; the conditions being, that it should be 
 within reasonable distance from London, that it should be in a region 
 not apart from neighbors of position, and that it should furnish facilities 
 for the preservation of game. 
 
 On the southern shore of "the Wash," — that broad, shallow inlet 
 which thrusts itself between the county of Lincoln on the north, and 
 that of Norfolk on the south, — a family of country gentry named 
 Lloyd had owned for several generations an extensive, but somewhat 
 unprofitable and neglected, estate, called Sandringham. Portions of 
 its soil were fertile ; but, for the most part, the land was sandy : and 
 great tracts, chiefly on the higher ground overlooking the estuary, were 
 covered with heather, out of which grew stunted and sparse fir-trees. 
 
 The mansion-house was an old brick pile, in a state of consider- 
 able dilapidation, standing near the centre of a park, which undulated 
 tamely indeed, but rather prettily, but which contained a lake, and not 
 a few fine old trees. 
 
 The estate was a strictly rural one ; the nearest town being Lynn 
 Regis, a seaport borough of some size, distant about eight miles. The
 
 THE PRINCE OF WALES AT HOME. IOI 
 
 whole surrounding region, although it is purely agricultural, may be 
 called one huge, game-preserve, — properties joining with properties 
 whose owners take their highest pride in having a large head of game 
 on their fields and in their covers. Norfolk divides with Nottingham 
 the reputation of carrying more partridges and pheasants to the acre 
 than any other county in England. 
 
 This property of Sandringham was purchased for the Prince of 
 Wales. Its price was one million and a half dollars, and at least an 
 equal amount of money has been expended on it since it became the 
 property of his Royal Highness. Viewed as an investment, it cannot 
 be called a success, and, indeed, was never meant to be a success in 
 this sense. 
 
 Landed property in England returns to its owner an average of 
 barely two and one-half per cent, but it may be questioned whether 
 the rental of Sandringham represents a half per cent on the money 
 which stands invested in it. There are a few farms besides that model 
 farm which the prince keeps in his own hands ; but the tenants " sit 
 easily," as the saying is, provided they make no complaints as to the 
 depredations of game on their crops. 
 
 So forlorn was the empty place — for the Lloyd family had died 
 out — when it passed into the prince's possession, that an early visitor, 
 who went to inspect it, found grass growing knee-high in the stalls 
 of the deserted stables. Since that day, there have been sweeping 
 changes : an all but new mansion, to complete which piecemeal cost 
 three years, now stands at the head of the gentle slope overlooking the 
 lake. 
 
 The park has been all but remodelled. A great slice of land has 
 been converted into gardens, which contain a vast extent of glass, 
 whence in one night sometimes twenty-five hundred dollars' worth of 
 rare flowers, blossoming in their pots, are brought across the lawn to 
 decorate the reception-rooms and dining-tables. The landscape-gar- 
 dener has metamorphosed, not only the vicinity of the mansion, but 
 the region within view from it. 
 
 The heath is now studded with flourishing plantations of young 
 firs, and enclosed clumps of rarer trees. An elaborately fantastic 
 summer-house, not inappropriately called the " Folly," adorns the sum- 
 mit of the highest sandy knoll in the vicinity ; and model cottages 
 greet everywhere the eye of the wayfarer who journeys through the 
 hamlets on the estates. 
 
 The mansion-house of Sandringham, — the " Hall" is the old name
 
 102 THE PRINCE OF WALES AT HOME. 
 
 that still clings to it, — although widely differing from the clumsy old 
 pile which it has succeeded, is in no sense a palace. It aims at being 
 nothing more than a country gentleman's picturesque and commodious 
 residence. There are half a dozen mansions in its own county which 
 surpass it, both in size and in pretensions. 
 
 It is a long, irregular structure of warm red brick pointed with 
 white stone, and having two fronts, — one toward the smooth park, 
 studded with great ash and oak trees ; one toward the more broken 
 ground, in the hollow of which lies, among clumps of ornamental 
 shrubbery, the pretty artificial lake. 
 
 The finest room in the mansion is the drawing-room, — a long 
 apartment, with a great bay-window in its larger section, and in the 
 centre a beautiful piece of statuary in white marble, around the pedes- 
 tal of which rises a variegated bank of rare flowers always in blossom. 
 At one end of the first-floor corridor is the bedroom of the royal couple, 
 the room in which the prince lay during that long, terrible illness of 
 his which so nearly proved fatal. One of the prettiest things in the 
 house is the princess's bath-room, — a little poem in white marble with 
 blue veins running through it. 
 
 But the room at Sandringham is the large entrance-hall, panelled in 
 carved wood, and adorned with old armor and modern pictures. It is 
 the living-room, or, rather, it may be said, the gathering-room, of the 
 royal circle and its guests when the family is at Sandringham. The 
 main door opens into a corner of it ; and opposite the main door is 
 the door which conducts to the inner corridor, off which open the 
 dining and drawing rooms. Above the first is the inscription, "Albert 
 Edward, Prince of Wales, and Alexandra, his wife, built this house." 
 Above the second are the words, " Dulce domum" — the keynote to 
 the family life at Sandringham. 
 
 This saloon is crowded with the appliances of every-day life, — an 
 open piano, a half-finished sketch on an easel, — a portrait, perhaps, by 
 an artist visitor, — children's books, a dainty writing-table, several 
 work-tables, couches, easy-chairs, and a hundred and one et ccetcras. It 
 is the general lounging-room of the house. It is the apartment sacred 
 to afternoon tea ; and, at Sandringham, afternoon tea is an institution. 
 
 The gentlemen have come in from shpoting, and sit or stand about, 
 still in their field-costume. The ladies, home from driving, or, it may 
 be, from walking with the guns, grace the occasion with their pres- 
 ence. The royal children are here, asking frank questions about the 
 day's sport, taking part in discussions concerning the arrangements for
 
 THE PRINCE OF WALES AT HOME. 
 
 103 
 
 the morrow, or listening to a quaint little story told by a visitor with a 
 gift as a raconteur. With the steam from the tea rises the smoke from 
 the cigarettes ; for the prince is an inveterate smoker, and his guests 
 willingly follow his lead. There is no prettier domestic scene in all 
 England than afternoon tea in the "saloon " at Sandringham. 
 
 The Prince of Wales at Home. 
 
 And this saloon is occasionally put to another duty. Cleared of its 
 furniture, it makes a charming ball-room, in which some two hundred 
 or more have ample room and verge enough. A house-ball at Sand- 
 ringham — always on a birthday — is a great occasion in Norfolk. 
 
 The gentlefolks of the county are invited impartially ; for, at Sand- 
 ringham, the prince aims simply to be a country gentleman among his 
 compeers. Perhaps there is yet greater "go" and heartiness in the 
 annual tenants' ball, which includes any number of tenant-farmers from 
 the neighboring estates, with their wives, sons, and daughters. Then,
 
 104 THE PRINCE OF WALES AT HOME. 
 
 there is a servants' ball, which is by no means confined to the servants 
 of the mansion, but includes those on the home-farm, the game- 
 keepers, the foresters, the cottagers on the estate, and the villagers 
 from Dersingham, hard by. The prince and princess, with the " house- 
 party," — their visitors, — mix with cordial good will and heartiness in 
 these gatherings of their humbler neighbors and dependants ; and 
 " Our Master," as the prince is universally styled by the farming-folk 
 in the neighborhood, may be seen leading out to the dance a cottager's 
 "good-wife;" while the princess stands up with a burly keeper, the 
 pleased solemnity of whose visage is a sight to see. 
 
 There is no busier life in England than the ordinary life of the 
 Prince of Wales, and to get down to Sandringham is for him a genu- 
 ine holiday. He always tries to be there at certain seasons, — 
 Easter, Whitsuntide, his own and the princess's birthdays, and Christ- 
 mas time. 
 
 Then, he goes to Sandringham, when he can get the chance, for the 
 hunting and the pheasant-shooting. The hounds which hunt the region 
 adjacent to Sandringham are kept by Mr. Anthony Hammond, a neigh- 
 boring squire ; and the royal family, when at Sandringham, are always 
 out with them two days a week. 
 
 The prince, although a welter weight, — he must ride quite two 
 hundred and thirty pounds, — is a good and fearless rider. I once saw 
 him gallop down a hillside so steep that I did not venture to follow 
 him. The princess, who, owing to the slight stiffness of the knee-joint 
 that supervened on an illness some ten years ago, rides with her skirt 
 on the right side of the saddle, is a good horsewoman ; and all the 
 royal children have been used to the saddle, almost from their cradles. 
 The country about Sandringham is by no means easy, although it is 
 comparatively open ; but neither broken ground nor fences stop the 
 royal party. 
 
 On shooting-days in the covers on the property, the princess and 
 her lady visitors almost always drive out to an appointed rendezvous, 
 to lunch with the men, the luncheon being sent on from the house. 
 Sometimes it is eaten in the open air, picnic fashion ; but more often 
 it is spread in some farmhouse, or perhaps in one of the numerous rus- 
 tic pleasure-cottages about the estate. After luncheon, the ladies often 
 walk with the guns throughout the afternoon, and return with the men 
 to afternoon tea. 
 
 Sunday is a right pleasant day at Sandringham. In the morning 
 the whole house-party walk across the park to the quaint little old
 
 THE PRINCE OE WALES Al HOME. 105 
 
 church on its outskirts. Out in the little churchyard, among the graves 
 of the country-folk, lies a simple marble slab, marking where lies 
 " John, infant son of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, and of Alex- 
 andra, his wife," a child who died a few hours after he was born. As 
 the party quit the church, the princess never fails to leave it, and turn 
 aside for a moment at the grave of her dead little one. 
 
 Near by this stone is another, erected by the prince to the mem- 
 ory of the groom who lay ill simultaneously with the prince, of the 
 same disorder, and who died when the prince lived. This latter 
 stone bears the simple inscription, " One was taken, and the other 
 left." 
 
 The interval till luncheon is occupied by a stroll around the park ; 
 and, after luncheon, the party visit the kennels, and the menagerie, 
 where are kept the wild animals which are among the prince's souve- 
 nirs of his visit to India. Here are a couple of tigers, which, when 
 cubs, were the playmates of the crew of the " Osborne " on her home- 
 ward voyage; and the two "baby" elephants, — babies no longer, — 
 which the sailors taught to chew tobacco, and which, they protested, 
 had been educated by them so highly that they could do any thing but 
 speak. The peregrination finishes with tea in the princess's pretty 
 dairy-cottage, where the party are served with butter which her Royal 
 Highness may have churned the day before. 
 
 An off-day at Sandringham is one of the prince's greatest enjoy- 
 ments. After breakfast he goes into his study, — a little room off the 
 entrance-hall, hung with the "Vanity Fair" caricatures of his friends, 
 and with countless sporting-sketches. Here he is joined by Mr. Beck, 
 his land-steward, who gives him an account of the doings at the home- 
 farm, — how the short-horns and Devons are ripening for exhibition at 
 the great Smithfield show ; and how the Southdowns, that are meant 
 to cope with the champion sheep from the Goodwood and Lord Wal- 
 singham's flocks, are laying on mutton. 
 
 Then the head keeper touches his forelock as he comes in to report 
 on the grouse experiment, or to explain the scheme of next day's cam- 
 paign against the long-tails. After a pleasant word or two with one 
 of his tenant-farmers, who wants a new barn, the prince gets on his 
 pony, and, with Beck and the forester walking by his side, he starts on 
 an excursion among his plantations, discussing, as they go, the need 
 for thinning the " Cocked-Hat Wood," or keeping the rabbits out of a 
 recent clump of foreign shrubs. A visit to the farm follows, as a mat- 
 ter of course ; and the prince tramps through the byres, punching the
 
 106 THE PRINCE OF WALES AT HOME. 
 
 ribs of the fattening oxen, and knowingly delving with his fist among 
 the wool on the backs of the Southdowns. 
 
 Meanwhile the princess is among her cottagers down at Newton, 
 encouraging the women-folk to vie with each other in the cleanliness 
 of their pretty habitations, distributing comforts among the ailing, and 
 looking in upon the little ones at the school, which she and her hus- 
 band maintain for the behoof of the laboring folk on the estate. 
 
 In fine, there is no comelier or wholesomer domestic life than that 
 enjoyed by the Prince and Princess of Wales when they are under their 
 own rural roof-tree down at Sandringham.
 
 THE THREE DAUGHTERS OF THE 
 PRINCESS OF WALES. 
 
 By NUGENT ROBINSON. 
 
 " ' I ^"HERE is luck in odd numbers." 
 
 J- This is the expression invariably used by his Royal Highness 
 the Prince of Wales, when referring to his five children, — his two 
 boys, and three girls. 
 
 The eldest son, born on the 8th of January, 1864, was christened 
 Albert Victor Christian Edward. If he lives, and the monarchy 
 stands, he will ascend the throne under the title of Edward VII. 
 
 George Frederick Ernest came next, on the 3d of June, 1865. 
 After George, Louisa Victoria Alexandra Dagmar was born on the 20th 
 of February, 1867. On the 6th of July, 1868, Victoria Alexandra Olga 
 Marie was born ; and, finally, on the 26th of November, 1869, was born 
 Maude Charlotte Marie Victoria. 
 
 Her Royal Highness the Princess Louisa is the most amiable of 
 the three, and is a miniature copy of her mother ; the Princess Vic- 
 toria, her father's pet, has a temper of her own, — impetuous, ardent, 
 hot, smiling through tears like a sunbeam in showers ; while Maude, 
 whom Queen Victoria idolizes, has a disposition somewhat like that of 
 her right royal grandmamma. 
 
 None of the princesses fear the Queen ; although everybody else 
 has a wholesome dread of her Most Gracious Majesty, who is as exact- 
 ing as she is severe. The daughters of the Prince of Wales, after the 
 first formal deep courtesy down to the ground is made, romp with their 
 grandmother as they would with one of the gouvemantes ; and it is a 
 matter of apprehension to the Dowager Marchioness of Ely, who, with 
 the exception of the late Duchess of Sutherland, — the Grand Duchess, 
 — is most intimate with the sovereign, when the young princesses
 
 I08 THE DAUGHTERS OF THE PRINCESS OF WALES. 
 
 pounce upon the Queen, and dare to pull about the ruler of an empire 
 
 upon which the sun never sets. 
 
 The Princess Louisa is the most talented, the Princess Maude the 
 
 smartest. All three have a talent for languages, and are always de- 
 lighted when their 
 uncle, the Crown 
 Prince of Denmark, 
 is with them ; as 
 then they chat in 
 Danish. He is said 
 to be their prime 
 favorite ; and, as 
 they dearly love a 
 romp, the good- 
 tempered uncle in- 
 dulges them with 
 the e'lan of a lad of 
 fifteen. 
 
 The princesses 
 are all musical, in- 
 heriting this taste 
 from their mother, 
 who is a superb 
 pianiste, but who 
 never plays outside 
 of her own imme- 
 diate family circle. 
 She is a devout fol- 
 lower of Rubin- 
 stein, and performs 
 that wonderful 
 waltz after a fashion 
 that would have en- 
 
 The Daughters of the Princess of Wales. 
 
 chanted the maestro, could he but have had the privilege of hearing her 
 play it. 
 
 The Princess of Wales carefully watches the musical education of her 
 daughters ; and nearly every day, after Mademoiselle Gaymard-Pacini, 
 the premiere pianiste of the age, who is their instructress, has concluded 
 her lesson, she asks how each demoiselle acquitted herself. The prince 
 is no musician. " I leave all that sort of thing to Edinburgh," he laughs.
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF THE PRINCESS OF WALES. 109 
 
 Once, not long since, it is said that Mademoiselle Gaymard-Pacini 
 had to complain of the inattention of the Princess Victoria. This was 
 on the grand staircase at Marlborough House. The Princess of Wales 
 was naturally very much grieved, and begged of mademoiselle to be as 
 rigid as buckram. The princess passed down ; and mademoiselle 
 passed up-stairs, to be received by the Princess Victoria, who had been 
 listening on the balusters, with a torrent of reproaches. 
 
 The young princesses having been promised a visit to the Tower 
 of London in May last, which they were nearly crazy to see, the Rev. 
 Teignmouth Shore, one of the Queen's chaplains, and chief editor of 
 Cassell, Petter, & Galpin's great publishing-house, was ordered to act 
 as their escort. 
 
 "I won't go if I can't go like any other little girl," said the Prin- 
 cess Maude. " I hate to have great big soldiers saluting, and every- 
 body bowing down to the ground. It's no fun, and I want to go like 
 any other little girl." 
 
 The Princess Maude carried the clay, having been warmly supported 
 by her sisters ; and the happy trio did the Tower "like any other little 
 girls," to their unbounded satisfaction. 
 
 The princesses are made to keep early hours. Five a.m., in sum- 
 mer, finds them out of their beds, and in flannel suits for calisthenics. 
 Their breakfast is very simple, — as much stirabout, oaten meal and 
 milk, as they like to eat. No hot rolls, no heavy meats, consequently 
 no dyspepsia. Their dinner at two is equally plain, — a nutritious 
 soup, a fish and a joint, with vegetables, and one pie or pudding. 
 
 Their greatest dissipation is waiting up to help dress mamma for 
 a ball. 
 
 The prince, when away, writes to each of the girls in turn. The 
 writer was amused at seeing a letter, — a charming, affectionate letter 
 too, — on the envelope of which was written, — 
 
 H. R. H., 
 The Princess Victoria of Wales, 
 A. E. Sandringham. 
 
 And although the initials of the heir to the throne were in the left- 
 hand corner, because he had failed to attach two postage-stamps instead 
 of one, the post-office stamp 2d, for the extra weight, was sprawled all 
 over the envelope. What radical but will rejoice at this ! 
 
 The letters from their brothers while cruising in the " Bacchante " 
 are always sources of unbounded delight to the young princesses.
 
 no THE DAUGHTERS OF THE PRINCESS OF WALES. 
 
 George is the favorite ; and such exclamations as, " Oh, won't we have 
 fun when George comes back ! " " What romps we'll have with 
 George ! " were to be heard all through July, both at Marlborough 
 House and Osborne, whither the little ladies were invited to assist at 
 the debarkation at Cowes. 
 
 The princesses are incessant talkers. They rattle away from rosy 
 morn to dewy eve ; and the resident governesses, extremely elegant 
 ladies, are occasionally driven to the verge of despair by the incessant 
 prattle of these little royalties. The elder governess they call " Mam," 
 the younger " Selle," dexterously cutting the word mademoiselle in two. 
 
 They are admirable mimics ; and every new " swell " who arrives, 
 is pretty certain to have his or her "precious weakness" admirably 
 reproduced by these natural and charming children. 
 
 They are very fond, like other children, of inspecting visitors from 
 the regions of the staircase ; and a favorite rarely escapes without some 
 furtive recognition. When enfamille, the young princesses are always 
 despatched by their parents for the wraps of the guests when the 
 latter are about to take their departure. 
 
 " Louise, run and get Lady So-and-so her cloak." 
 
 " Maude, where is Mrs. shawl ? " 
 
 "Victoria, go and find the duchess's wrap." 
 
 The Christmas pantomime is looked forward to for six months, and 
 fondly recollected for the rest of the year. The facetiousness of the 
 clown is admirably reproduced, while the knocks-down received by the 
 enduring and ever amiable pantaloon are practised with scrupulous 
 fidelity. It is after the witnessing of the pantomime that the gover- 
 nesses have to call upon all their reserves, in order to bring under 
 control the explosive animal spirits of these healthy young misses. 
 
 One morning last winter the three princesses were taking an air- 
 ing in the home-park, attended as usual. An itinerary vender of 
 oranges and apples was pushing his cart along, when he was perceived 
 by the young ladies, and the whisper passed, — 
 
 " What fun to buy some oranges ! " 
 
 To ask the attendants were both a thankless and useless task. 
 Where was the necessary penny ? Maude was the proud possessor of 
 sixpence. The plan of operation was speedily arranged. Her Royal 
 Highness the Princess Maude was to drop behind, dart to the cart, 
 make the purchase, and return to her place. 
 
 The attention of the attendants was artfully diverted to some 
 remote object : the Princess Maude lagged behind, and, as the cart
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF THE PRINCESS OF WALES. Ill 
 
 approached, stopped, presented her sixpence, and snatched three bloom- 
 ing oranges from the willing hands of the vender, who little imagined 
 he had just disposed of a portion of his stock at a royal price to the 
 granddaughter of his Queen. 
 
 And weren't those oranges sweeter than any ever presented from 
 the forcing-houses of the palaces ? 
 
 The Princess of Wales dresses her daughters in the plainest pos- 
 sible way, — calicoes, ginghams, muslins, and flannel being de rigueur. 
 No corsets, no tightness of any kind ; and as for ornaments, such as 
 rings, earrings, or bracelets, her Royal Highness would be astounded 
 if such an idea were so much as mooted. 
 
 She is very particular about having the girls instructed in sewing, 
 embroidery, and all manner of woman's domestic work, and continually 
 holds up her sister-in-law Lome as a model in that respect. 
 
 Little does the passer-by imagine, as he glances up at the lightest 
 window of Marlborough House, that behind the blind is seated the 
 future Queen of England, lovingly surrounded by her daughters, to 
 whom she is reading some refined and instructive story ; while her hus- 
 band, his cigar in his mouth, gazes at this home-picture with a pleasure 
 appreciated only by a father's love.
 
 KING AND QUEEN OF DENMARK. 
 
 By CARL STEEN DE BILLE.' 
 
 I. 
 
 MOST of the dynasties that now occupy thrones in Europe can 
 carry the history of their advent to the purple many centuries 
 back. But the royal house of Denmark is a remarkable exception. 
 
 When the present King Christian IX. — now the sovereign of one 
 of Europe's oldest, and at the same time smallest, kingdoms, himself 
 the father of one king, one empress, and of the princess nearest to 
 Great Britain's throne — was born, on April 8, 1818, he was the 
 younger son of one of those princely families which have by the his- 
 torical development been reduced, from small dukedoms and marqui- 
 sates, to relative poverty and insignificance. 
 
 The members of the house of Holstein-Sonderborg-Gliicksborg-Beck 
 had royal blood in their veins ; but all that was left them of former 
 greatness was the long name enumerating the possessions they once 
 had owned or laid claim to. Young Prince Christian of Glucksborg 
 had to work his own way in life ; and, according to the traditions of 
 the family, he chose a military career, entering as a lieutenant in the 
 Royal Horse-Guards, a dashing and splendidly uniformed cavalry regi- 
 ment, forming the favorite body-guard of the King of Denmark, at that 
 time old King Frederick VI. 
 
 He had reached the rank and pay of captain when, in 1842, he 
 married in Copenhagen the Princess Louise of Hesse-Cassel, a distant 
 relative of his, and very nearly of his own age. It was in every 
 respect a love-match. Both were young, handsome, and full of hope. 
 They loved, and they married, trusting to Providence, little dreaming 
 at the time of the high destinies reserved to them in the not distant 
 
 1 Danish minister at Washington.
 
 KING AND QUEEN OE DENMARK. 
 
 "3 
 
 future. The marriage was, and ever since has been, a most happy 
 one ; in every respect, a model of an honest, loving household. 
 
 Two sons and two daughters were born to them in the first five 
 years of their marriage. 
 
 The prince-captain and his princess-wife had to shift as well as they 
 could in order to make both ends meet, and they managed to solve the 
 
 The King and Queen of Denmark. 
 
 problem in a way that won them general esteem and admiration. Hus- 
 band and wife learned, during this period, to appreciate the struggles, 
 the cares, the joys, and the sorrows, of ordinary human life. They have 
 never forgotten the teachings of these humble and happy years ; and to 
 them they owe many of the qualities which have since endeared them 
 to their people, and united their hearts with the Danish nation's heart.
 
 1 14 KING AND QUEEN OE DENMARK. 
 
 The year of 1848, that swept Europe by an irresistible current of 
 popular rising, was eventful for Denmark. Two of the provinces of 
 the kingdom, the Duchies of Slesvig and Holstein, the population 
 of which was, by a great majority, German, revolted against the au- 
 thority of the Danish king, and were supported by Germany and 
 Prussia. The house of Gliicksborg had sprung from these duchies, and 
 nearly all its members sided with the rebellion against the king. Only 
 Prince Christian remained faithful to his allegiance and his oath. He 
 drew his sword on his sovereign's side, and served with all honor under 
 the Danish ^lag during the three years' war that ended with the crush- 
 ing of the insurrection. 
 
 This fidelity soon found a reward. On the throne of Denmark was 
 then sitting King Frederick VII., the last scion of the dynasty of 
 Oldenborg, which had for full four centuries reigned over that king- 
 dom, and, for a great part of the time, also over Norway. King Fred- 
 erick VII. had been married twice, but had no children. It became 
 necessary to provide for the succession to the throne ; and, as the 
 integrity and preservation of the Danish monarchy was a matter of 
 high interest to all European Powers, the settlement had to be arranged 
 by and with their advice and consent. 
 
 Among the candidates to the throne, Prince Christian soon occu- 
 pied the first place. His own family relations did not give him any 
 near claim ; but his wife was, through her mother, a born Princess of 
 Denmark, in close relationship to the king. But, more than any right 
 of pedigree, it was the general high regard for the princely couple, and 
 the sincere respect for their moral qualities, that lifted them to the 
 vacant place of heirs-presumptive to the throne of Denmark. In 1852 
 a treaty was concluded in London between the great Powers, designat- 
 ing Prince Christian of Gliicksborg as successor to Frederick VII. ; 
 and, in 1853, a bill passed the Danish Parliament confirming the 
 nomination. 
 
 In their new, and in many respects very delicate, position, Prince 
 Christian of Denmark, as he was now called, and Princess Louise, 
 continued to exhibit the same distinguished qualities that had marked 
 them as the Danish people's choice. Surrounded by more splendor, 
 their household and domestic life still kept within the same groove of 
 honesty and happiness. 
 
 One son and one daughter more were born to them during this 
 period. It was also before their actual advent to the throne, in March, 
 1863, that their eldest daughter, Princess Alexandra, married the
 
 KING AND QUEEN OE DENMARK. 1 15 
 
 Prince of Wales, and that their second son, William, was elected King 
 of the Greeks, under the name of George I. The marriage of the sec- 
 ond daughter, Princess Dagmar, to the Grand Duke Alexander, now 
 the Emperor of all the Russias, took place some years later. 
 
 The peculiar charm of Princess Alexandra, from her very child- 
 hood, has been a womanly grace, which has instinctively won all hearts 
 around her. She is thoroughly well educated, speaks with ease and 
 elegance four languages, and possesses a good deal of solid knowledge ; 
 but she never makes any show of these accomplishments, and they are 
 overshone by her kind heart and deep womanly feeling. 
 
 Her handsome features and tranquil beauty are the mirror of a 
 corresponding mind. She moves with equal ease and grace in the 
 most different circles, is as friendly and sympathetic to the peasant 
 she meets on the road as to the lord who is bowing to her in the gilded 
 palace. Naturally inclined to a serious turn of mind, she can be glad, 
 and even merry, with those who are dear to her. 
 
 Such she was as a child and young girl, and such she remains as the 
 Princess of Wales. It is the combination of these qualities that have 
 made her so generally beloved in English society, exclusive and exact- 
 ing as it is, and obtained for her a popularity equalling that of Queen 
 Victoria herself. 
 
 She was hardly eighteen when she was betrothed to Prince Albert 
 Edward of Wales, three years her senior. The Prince-Consort had 
 then died, and left the Queen of England a disconsolate widow ; but 
 it is believed, that, several years before, he had contemplated the match 
 as the fittest for the heir to England's throne, and one which offered 
 the best guaranty for mutual happiness and a vigorous progeniture. 
 The choice was made for policy and state-craft, but the tenderer feel- 
 ings of the young people were not excluded ; and, before any thing 
 was settled, the opportunity was offered them to become acquainted, 
 and to prove their own hearts. 
 
 The result conformed to the wishes of the parents ; and in March, 
 1863, the young princess left the land of her birth to accept the higher 
 destinies waiting for her. A few days after, on March 10, 1863, the 
 wedding took place with great splendor, and with no less enthusiasm. 
 More than twenty years have now passed since that day ; and it may 
 be truly said, that at no moment during this entire period has the 
 princess lost in the love or the sympathetic respect of the British peo- 
 ple. Her popularity has every year sent deeper roots into the hearts 
 of the nation.
 
 Il6 ROYAL CHILDREN OF DENMARK. 
 
 The Princess of Wales is still one of the handsomest ladies in 
 English society. She has preserved her tall and slender figure, her 
 complexion is still fair, her eyes have the same kind sparkle, and her 
 beautiful hair has the same natural and artless fall. She does not look 
 her age. Some years ago she was attacked by a disease that left a 
 stiffness in one of her knee-joints, and this somewhat impedes her 
 movements. 
 
 During the London season, when Hyde Park is full of splendid 
 carriages and prancing teams, and when Rotten Row is crowded with 
 ladies and gentlemen on horseback, the princess generally takes a drive 
 through the park from Marlborough House, her residence, accompanied 
 by one or two of her daughters, who are fast growing up to promising 
 womanhood. Her carriage is unpretending, almost plain ; but no spec- 
 tator could fail to observe it as it passes along, greeted by the deep 
 bows of the ladies, and the uncovering of all the gentlemen. 
 
 II. 
 
 ROYAL CHILDREN OF DENMARK. 
 
 The second son of the King and Queen of Denmark is George, 
 now King of the Hellenes. He was born on the 24th of December, 
 1845, nearly a year after the Princess Alexandra, and was christened 
 Christian Vilhelm Ferdinand Adolph George, but called Vilhelm. 
 
 A brighter, merrier boy could not be found in Copenhagen. He 
 was brimful of fun, and was the delight and the despair of his parents 
 and tutors. But he possessed an excellent heart, and was the declared 
 pet of the household. His character and abilities clearly predisposed 
 him for the navy, the favorite service of Denmark ; and, at the age of 
 twelve, he became, after as severe a test as any of the aspirants, a 
 cadet of the naval academy. 
 
 He was eminently popular among his fellow-cadets, and well liked 
 by his teachers, who always addressed him plainly as "Mr. Vilhelm." 
 
 After school-hours he loved to stroll with some " chum " in the 
 back streets of the town, in order to study the every-day life of the 
 common people. Once, after having fondly scanned a dish of fried 
 fish exhibited in the window of a third-rate dining-room, he could not 
 resist the temptation to enter ; and he asked for as large a slice of the 
 fish as his scanty pocket-money would buy.
 
 ROYAL CHILDREN OF DENMARK. 117 
 
 To his youthful fancy, honors and rank in the Danish navy stood 
 then at the utmost goal. As second son of the then heir-apparent, 
 he could not aspire to any higher position, and the chance of a regal 
 crown seemed so distant as not to be worth a thought. 
 
 It was the wedding of his sister, Princess Alexandra, to the Prince 
 of Wales in March, 1863, that accidentally made him a candidate for 
 the throne of Greece. King Otho of the royal house of Bavaria had, 
 after more than thirty years of struggles and contests with the unruly 
 Hellenic people, been deposed, and expelled from the kingdom. The 
 Greeks had offered the vacant throne to scions of different royal 
 houses, to princes of Great Britain and of Russia ; but such was the 
 state of mutual jealousy among the great Powers of Europe, that no 
 prince connected with one of them could be allowed to accept. In 
 this predicament the marriage of the Prince of Wales took place ; and, 
 during the ceremonies, the eyes of Lord Russell, who was then foreign 
 minister of England, fell upon the young and lively Danish midship- 
 man, standing close to his handsome sister. He was a boy of hardly 
 eighteen, but he had the royal blood in his veins ; and, at the same 
 time, he belonged to a country which could derive no political advan- 
 tage from any turn in the complicated Oriental question. 
 
 Lord Russell, after communicating with his colleagues, broached 
 the idea to the Queen and to the young man's parents, and was encour- 
 aged. Prince Vilhelm himself, when the matter was laid before him, 
 hesitated a moment, as it was only natural that he should, but then, 
 with courage and high-spirited ambition, accepted, leaving his father 
 and the Danish Government to settle the conditions. One of these 
 was, that Great Britain should cede the Ionian Islands, over which she 
 had, since the peace of Vienna, maintained a kind of protectorate, so 
 that the new king could bring these beautiful possessions as a dowry 
 to his future subjects. 
 
 For the King of Greece, the name of George, dear to the popular 
 fancy, and connected with religious notions, was considered fitter than 
 that of Vilhelm ; and it was accordingly adopted. 
 
 The history of Greece since his advent has been troublesome 
 enough, and the king has not been bedded on roses. The Hellenes 
 are not easily governed. They are a fitful and passionate people ; and 
 the constitution of the kingdom seems to be more calculated to foster 
 political intrigue and party-fights, than to promote the practical inter- 
 ests, and to develop the resources, of the country. 
 
 King George has faithfully and loyally steered his way through the
 
 Il8 ROYAL CHILDREN OF DENMARK. 
 
 storms and squalls. As a constitutional sovereign, he has followed 
 the impulses of the national will, but, at the same time, protected 
 Greece against dangers, sometimes even against herself. 
 
 He has fully and entirely identified himself with his people, has 
 adopted their nationality, their language, their aspirations. Recently 
 he has been able to extend the frontiers without entering into any war, 
 and to add to the kingdom some long-coveted provinces where Greek 
 is spoken. What he obtained, after many months of patient work, was 
 not all that the Hellenes wanted to get ; and a part of his subjects are 
 more inclined to fret for the Greek-speaking territories still retained 
 in the grasp of the Sultan, than to rejoice over those liberated from it. 
 
 In the cares and anxieties of regal duty, King George has a faith- 
 ful and sympathetic helpmate in his wife. Queen Olga, the daughter 
 of Grand Duke Constantine of Russia, is only a little over thirty. 
 They were married in October, 1867, and have a family of seven chil- 
 dren, of whom four are boys. 
 
 The domestic life of the King and Queen of Greece is as happy 
 as it can be. They are keeping up the good traditions which each of 
 them has received from the paternal home. Queen Olga is as cheerful 
 and lively as her husband. With the remarkable linguistic talent pe- 
 culiar to the Russians, she has mastered, not only the Hellenic, but 
 also the Danish, language. 
 
 The young couple and their children often visit Copenhagen, and 
 there have an opportunity to see and to live with their cousins of 
 England, of Russia, and of Denmark. No home can be merrier or 
 happier than is the Danish Court, when children and grandchildren 
 from Copenhagen, St. Petersburg, London, and Athens, gather there 
 around King Christian and Queen Louise. 
 
 The second daughter of the King and Queen of Denmark is now 
 Empress of Russia. As the Princess Dagmar, she was much like her 
 brother, the present King of Greece. She was the favorite of the 
 merry young midshipman, his confidante, and his mate in his freaks. 
 
 When hardly more than seventeen, she was betrothed to the eldest 
 son of Czar Alexander II., the hereditary Grand Duke Nicolas. It 
 was a match in which the reasons of policy and state-craft were more 
 consulted than the individual feelings of the parties. The grand duke 
 was sickly, and of a melancholy turn of mind. Still, he possessed so 
 many solid qualities, and so amiable a character, that he would, no 
 doubt, in time have won the love of his young bride. Shortly after 
 the engagement, however, he was taken ill, was carried to Nice ; and
 
 ROYAL CHILDREN OF DENMARK. 
 
 II 9 
 
 there, in spite of the mild climate and the high medical skill surround- 
 ing him, he died in April, 1865. 
 
 His betrothed had been summoned to his death-bed, where she 
 shared with his mother, the empress, the mournful watches ; and it is 
 said that one of the last wishes of the dying prince was that of seeing 
 
 King George of Greece and the Empress of 
 Russia. 
 
 his brother Alexander succeed, not only to his place on the steps of 
 the throne, but also to the matrimonial bliss which he himself was not 
 to enjoy. 
 
 However that might be, the young people, who had met for the 
 first time over a grave, felt a deep mutual attachment ; and, a little 
 more than a year after, they were engaged. 
 
 The event happened in quite a romantic way. On a splendid day 
 in early June, 1866, the royal family of Denmark made an excursion 
 with their guest, the Russian grand duke, from the summer palace of
 
 120 ROYAL CHILDREN OF DENMARK. 
 
 Fredensborg to a place near the Sound, called the house of Julebek. 
 It is nothing but a small forester's cottage, surrounded by tall beeches, 
 and almost hidden in blooming shrubs. But, from this spot, there opens 
 the most splendid view over the Sound, always covered with white 
 sails and smoking funnels, to the verdant shore of Southern Sweden 
 opposite : and this ever-changing panorama is bordered to the left by 
 the softly rounded heights of the Kullen Mountains ; and, to the right, 
 by the square masses and lofty spires of Kronborg Castle, to which the 
 genius of Shakspeare, if not the prose of history, has forever attached 
 the fancy-figures of melancholy Hamlet, and fair, unhappy Ophelia. 
 Here it was that the vow was offered and taken. 
 
 In the fall of 1866 Princess Dagmar, who, with the Greek Catholic 
 faith, had adopted the name of Maria Feodorowna, left Copenhagen in 
 a royal steamer, and, some days after, landed in Peterhof, where she 
 was received, not only with the splendor peculiar to the gorgeous Rus- 
 sian Court, but also with real popular enthusiasm. The wedding took 
 place on Nov. 9. 
 
 Five children are living of those granted to her and her husband, 
 the youngest born in the summer of 1882. The eldest son, Grand 
 Duke Nicolas, now the heir-apparent to the throne, is said to be most 
 like his mother, — bright and lively, very fond of all kinds of sport.
 
 THE KING OF BAVARIA. 
 
 By MRS. JOHN LILLIE. 
 
 I. 
 
 ALONG time ago, I remember receiving from a friend in Munich 
 a letter, giving an account of the boyish sovereign of Bavaria. 
 My friend had met him. He impressed her as being all that was gra- 
 cious and royal. He was rather melancholy. His moods were very 
 capricious, and it was well known that even then he had broken off 
 two or three alliances the state had in view for him ; but his passionate 
 love of music, poetry, and art gave him a special charm. He was de- 
 voted to Wagner, a composer then little known or cared for beyond 
 his native Bavaria. He welcomed poets to his court. He spent hours 
 a day with his books and his music, and was certainly regarded in those 
 days with admiration, within and without his own court. 
 
 It was, I think, a little later than this that the melancholy young 
 prince had the one love-affair of his life. His fancy rested on a lady 
 of rank whom he would have married but for an unfortunate disagree- 
 ment arising between them, and which, however unjustly, convinced 
 the king that she was unworthy of his choice. Since then, many sug- 
 gestions have been made to him in regard to his choosing a wife ; but 
 none met his approval. 
 
 When I found myself for the first time in Munich (1881), and saw 
 the solemn palace in which the king resides, I wondered where was the 
 Prince Charming. I soon heard that the king was in the mountains, 
 but was expected shortly to return to Munich for a few weeks of the 
 carnival season. 
 
 A day or two later, we were driving in the Hofgarten, when we 
 encountered a long procession of carriages, with servants in blue liv- 
 ery, and outriders who looked as if they had come a tedious journey.
 
 122 THE KING OF BAVARIA. 
 
 Indeed, they had been travelling day and night : for these carriages 
 contained the king's suite, his private effects, and his body-servants ; 
 and they had all come from one of the gloomy castles in the mountains 
 to which the king goes now and then, living almost alone, amusing 
 himself chiefly with books and music. A little later, and there passed 
 an unostentatious open carriage, in which sat the king himself. 
 
 I am sorry to say that the first flush of youthful beauty has de- 
 parted. He was a tolerably good-looking man, with large, melancholy 
 eyes, a heavy mustache, and a certain military air increased by his very 
 gay uniform and broad shoulders. As he passed, people looked after 
 him curiously enough ; for he is rarely seen, even in the streets of his 
 own capital. The glances which followed him were not particularly 
 pleasant, — nothing like the look with which the most stolid Briton 
 regards his sovereign or the Prince of Wales. 
 
 It was certainly a disappointing end to my little romance, to have 
 to give up the idea of Prince Charming ; to resign my fanciful notions 
 of a beautiful young king, filling his court with grace, music, and learn- 
 ing ; above all, not only to see him transformed into a heavy, rather 
 sullen-looking man, but to know that his subjects only regarded him 
 with half-horrified curiosity. 
 
 Ludwig II. was born in August, 1845, at the old Palace of Nym- 
 penburg. It is a dreary building just outside Munich, — along gray 
 pile, with very little to suggest its being a royal residence. Indeed, I 
 know few places drearier in winter than Nympenburg Palace ; and here, 
 perhaps, the delicate, fanciful boy, growing up in an atmosphere of 
 home-life none too genial, may have strengthened his morbid tendencies. 
 
 At all events, the story of his early life is a very dull one. He had 
 his cousins for companions. He soon showed musical ability ; and, 
 like all Bavarian princes, he had a semi-military education. His mother 
 was a Prussian princess, and in her twentieth year when he was born. 
 Her married life was clouded by the peculiarities of her husband, who 
 died in 1864, leaving his son, a boy-king of nineteen, full of promise, 
 but disturbed then by dawning eccentricities. 
 
 Since his accession to the throne, Ludwig II. has spent much of his 
 time at his country-places, owing to an aversion to Munich ; and every 
 year his peculiarities grow more and more marked. Indeed, after a 
 winter in Bavaria, and meeting many people on intimate terms with the 
 court, the shrug and sigh over " Dcr Konig ! " is easily understood. 
 
 I suppose no prince in Europe is so little known by his people. He 
 rarely allows himself to be seen in public. He absents himself from
 
 THE KING OF BAVARIA. 
 
 123 
 
 every possible state occasion. If it is known that he is going to any 
 particular place, and the people try to see him, he contrives to go at 
 an unusual hour. In short, his object seems to be to divide himself as 
 completely as possible from the hearts of his subjects. 
 
 His mode of life is most peculiar. Whether in Munich, or in the 
 country, he sits up far into the 
 night, with the rooms bril- 
 liantly lighted, and, as far 
 as possible, an effect 
 of daytime given. , 
 
 During these 
 hours, when 
 all the 
 world 
 
 Royal Palace, Bavaria. 
 
 is supposed to be sleeping, he occupies himself in various ways pre- 
 cisely as if it were daylight. Towards daybreak, and often after, he 
 retires to bed, sleeping most of the day, or, at least, reclining in bed. 
 
 Attached to his bed is a curious reading-desk, so contrived, that, by 
 pressing a spring, the volume is let up or down, the leaves turned, the 
 book closed, etc. 
 
 His meals are served to him alone : but he frequently has covers
 
 124 THE KING OF BAVARIA. 
 
 laid for seven people, — guests who exist only in his own fancy; but 
 the servants are obliged to serve each plate with a portion of every 
 course, while the king presides solemnly over the very ghostly banquet. 
 When he is in one of his castles, his meals are all served on a table, 
 which is, by a special contrivance, sent up through a trap-door, so that 
 no one appears during the meal. 
 
 He is very fond of surrounding himself with the costumes and fur- 
 niture of different periods, and, in his country-houses, insists upon 
 having different centuries represented. Sometimes all the servants 
 and gentlemen of his suite are obliged to dress in the style of the six- 
 teenth or eighteenth centuries ; again, in that of the ninth or tenth. 
 The king is perfectly grave and self-possessed while these theatrical 
 figures move about him. 
 
 Seclusion is so much his object, that he now refuses to see his 
 ministers of state, unless it is absolutely unavoidable. On any ordi- 
 nary occasion, they are obliged to converse with him behind a wire- 
 netting, through which any documents are handed to his solemn 
 Majesty. He insists upon the most rigid etiquette being observed in 
 his presence ; and even his own cousins are not permitted to seat them- 
 selves in his presence, unless as a very special favor. Very rarely, 
 indeed, are they allowed to visit him ; and he is scarcely on speaking- 
 terms with his mother, although her residence almost adjoins his. 
 
 Wagner's music is his delight : but he has often a special perform- 
 ance of the opera for himself alone ; although it is a desperate work 
 for the singers to perform to the rows of dark, empty stalls, in spite of 
 their one visitor being the king himself ! 
 
 Sometimes he has music at his winter palace ; but then, it is a most 
 curious entertainment. In the top of the building he has caused to be 
 placed a huge tank of water, surrounded by an artificial shore, with 
 tropical plants, rocks, etc., — everything to suggest its being a genuine 
 lake. On this he has a boat in which he rows himself about, fancying 
 he is in the midst of summer verdure, and on natural waters. A gauze 
 network separates the lake from a sort of corridor, to which he invites 
 the principal opera-singers. There they stand, singing for his Majesty, 
 while he rows around the lake, now and then pausing to give some 
 direction about the music. 
 
 One of the principal singers in Munich is a young lady, very full of 
 fun and the spirit of adventure. One day it occurred to her to create 
 a diversion, and shake the king's equilibrium, by falling into the water. 
 Accordingly, with a well-acted little scream of horror, in she splashed.
 
 THE KING OF BAVARIA. 1 25 
 
 The king looked for an instant : then, pulling his boat up to the shore, 
 he rang a bell. A servant instantly appeared, whereupon his Majesty, 
 saying, "You may take her out," rowed on calmly, without offering an- 
 other remark ; and Mademoiselle A was conducted, shivering and 
 
 wet, to her carriage. 
 
 Some of his friendships have been most enthusiastic, but have come 
 to the most abrupt terminations. One friend, for whom he professed 
 the greatest admiration, was thrown aside because, while reading aloud 
 to the king one day, and feeling tired, he ventured to lounge over the 
 back of a chair. A young and pretty German princess, about whom 
 the court entertained high hopes at one time, lost favor because she 
 refused to admire " Rienzi," one of Wagner's operas ; and he quarrelled 
 with one of his most charming cousins over a small, and said to be ugly, 
 miniature he happened to admire. 
 
 His friendship for Wagner has been most solid and lasting ; but the 
 people of Munich are very hostile to the composer, however much they 
 may like his music. They believe he encourages the king in eccen- 
 tricity ; and several times, during visits to Munich, Wagner has been 
 mobbed. 
 
 " Surely," I hear any well-balanced young reader say, " surely this 
 king is a madman ! " Well, not long ago his own people began to say 
 the same thing ; and it reached the king's ears. 
 
 " Mad ! " he exclaimed. " Do they think, because they never see 
 me, I am mad?" Accordingly, he ordered his open carriage, with out- 
 riders and all possible pomp, and drove from one end of Munich to 
 another, in and out of every street, however obscure. 
 
 "Now," he remarked to a friend, "ask them if I look mad. But," 
 he added, " if I am, it's nobody s business! " 
 
 II. 
 
 THE ROYAL FAMILY. 
 
 Looking out of my window, I can see a large yellow stone building, 
 scarcely to be called a palace, yet certainly more imposing than an 
 ordinary town-mansion. It is four stories high, and has heavy win- 
 dows on each side of a stone-paved carriage-entrance. To the right, 
 looking in this doorway, one can see a flight of steps leading into the 
 house ; to the left, glass doors swing open on a similar staircase ; be-
 
 126 THE ROYAL FAMILY OF BAVARIA. 
 
 yond is a wide, sunny court, in which servants are constantly to be seen 
 running hither and thither. 
 
 Sometimes a footman, in pale blue livery, stands at the foot of the 
 staircase. Every day a very striking figure appears in the doorway. 
 This is an official, wearing a cocked hat, and a long blue cloth coat 
 elaborately trimmed with fur and silver, who carries a huge silver rod 
 which glitters in the sun. There are two soldiers stationed at each 
 side of. the doorway in sentry-boxes, who look at the magnificently 
 dressed official from time to time, as if waiting to detect in his expres- 
 sion some command. 
 
 A little American girl, who walked past the house one day, was 
 most curious to know who the man in the furs and silver was, — why he 
 stood so long in the door. So she waited to see what would happen. 
 It was a fine day in early spring : the sun was shining, and the pigeons 
 gathering in swarms on the eaves of the old yellow stone house. 
 
 Presently an open carriage turned the corner. In it sat a plump, 
 sweet-faced lady of about thirty, and two little girls, — pretty children, 
 — who had their dolls beside them. A tall, fine-looking gentleman 
 rode by them on a black horse. Instantly the sentinels presented arms. 
 The man in the cocked hat stood very upright, bowing as the carriage 
 and the rider passed in ; while everybody standing about bowed, the 
 lady and gentleman and the little girls returning the salutations, right 
 and left. 
 
 When the party had disappeared behind the glass doors, and the 
 servants had driven the horses into the court -yard, the man at the door 
 vanished also. His duty for the hour was over ; for he had been wait- 
 ing, according to Bavarian etiquette, for the return of his master and 
 mistress, who are Prince Ludwig and his lovely wife, Princess Maria 
 Therese. 
 
 Prince Ludwig is the king's cousin, and, in the event of the king 
 dying childless, will succeed to the throne. 
 
 This prince is one of the most popular members of the Bavarian 
 royal family. While the king is never seen, and never interests him- 
 self in his public, Prince Ludwig is constantly among the people. One 
 meets him nearly every fine Sunday, walking in one of the principal 
 streets with his wife on his arm, and sometimes one or two of their 
 children with them. They go about in this way with perfect simpli- 
 city, the only attention exacted from passers-by being a civil bow, which 
 they always return ; although frequently gentlemen who are passing 
 move back, bowing until the royal couple have gone by.
 
 THE ROYAL FAMILY OF BAVARIA. 
 
 127 
 
 The prince is a plain, clever-looking man, with a light beard, near- 
 sighted eyes, and a most kindly smile. His wife is handsome, and very 
 genial-looking ; and their children have the most brilliant complexions, 
 and beautiful eyes and hair. 
 
 line Royal Family of Bavaria. 
 
 These little royalties are most carefully educated, for Princess Maria 
 Therese is known to be one of the most sensible mothers in Europe. 
 They study hard, learning to cook, to sew, and even to do housework ; 
 and, of course, their accomplishments are varied. In winter they re- 
 side in the town-house which I have described, going freely about
 
 128 THE ROYAL FAMILY OF BAVARIA. 
 
 Munich ; if walking, attended by a governess and a man-servant ; if 
 driving, with their mother, and always ready to look up politely, and 
 nod to the people who salute them in the public streets. 
 
 In summer they live chiefly in the Tyrol, — sometimes at a beautiful 
 villa on Lake Constance. There they continue their studies, but their 
 home-life is even freer than in Munich. The princess superintends 
 their education very strictly, spending hours in their schoolroom or 
 nursery, and, in spite of much necessary formality, engaging their 
 instructors and nurses, and directing such herself. A moderate sum 
 is allowed them for pocket-money, but this is only to be spent judi- 
 ciously ; and I am told that the little princesses enjoy the free expen- 
 diture of twenty-five cents quite as much as, if not more than, would 
 any small person, under ten, on Beacon Street or Madison Avenue. 
 
 Up to a certain age, the Bavarian princesses are entirely subject 
 to their governesses, who are not allowed to treat them as if their 
 rank were royal. In going or coming, leaving the house, a church, shop, 
 etc., the governess takes the lead, the prince or princess following her 
 as any ordinary child would an older person ; and they are obliged to 
 treat their little guests with similar deference. 
 
 Not long ago one of the princesses invited a young friend of mine 
 to drive. The carriage was waiting ; and, on the governess leading the 
 way to it, the princess jumped in first, and took the front seat. The 
 governess stood still, and calmly ordered her royal pupil to get out 
 again. This was done with rather a bad grace, and her little highness 
 murmured something to the effect that she did not see why Mademoi- 
 selle Von B should go in ahead of her. The governess thereupon 
 
 insisted upon her pupil's waiting until every one was seated, and then 
 allowed her to get in unaided, and take the back seat, a discipline 
 which her mother strongly commended on their return to the palace. 
 
 Sometimes, however, etiquette interferes with their amusements. 
 Once, at Lake Constance, when one of the princesses wished to give 
 a picnic-party, it was found that not above half a dozen children of 
 sufficient rank for so impromptu an affair could.be found. And, on 
 another equally sudden occasion, the little guests could not assemble 
 because etiquette demanded a special kind of dress which there was no 
 time to procure. 
 
 A very charming member of the Bavarian royal family is the Prin- 
 cess Gisela. She was the very young bride whose arrival in Munich 
 created such a sensation a few years ago. She is the daughter of the 
 Emperor of Austria, and was married to Prince Leopold of Bavaria
 
 THE ROYAL FAMILY OF BAVARIA. 129 
 
 when she was little more than fifteen. Being of a very gay, vivacious 
 disposition, loving school-girlish "fun" as well as social amusements, 
 you can imagine that her appearance in the dreariest of foreign courts 
 caused no little flutter ; and Princess Gisela has never lost her bril- 
 liancy and gay good-humor. If court-life were what she would make 
 it, Munich would be a very changed place. She is not only known for 
 her liveliness of manner,' but for an extraordinary sweet temper, and 
 for being the wisest of little mothers, and one of the best of wives. 
 It is pretty to see her with her tiny children, herself little more than 
 a girl, and yet watching them with all the fond solicitude of middle 
 age. She has no claims to positive beauty ; but her face is radiant 
 when she speaks, and at all times has a charm of its own, — a piquant 
 sort of loveliness, which is often more attractive than regularity of 
 feature. 
 
 This princess is a particular favorite with the gentle-looking lady 
 whom we see very often, and who is known as the " Queen Mother." 
 King Ludwig has never married, so that his father's widow receives 
 every consideration as the Queen of Bavaria. She leads a quiet, 
 peaceful life. When she is in Munich, she lives in the big yellow 
 palace in the centre of the town, part of which is constantly shown 
 the public. She receives visitors, and makes calls herself, from time 
 to time. 
 
 The other day her state-carriage created quite a sensation in a 
 small street through which we were passing. She was going to make 
 a call upon some one who lived there ; and the big carriage, with foot- 
 men swinging behind, and two men on the heavily draped box, rattled 
 up to the door ; while several by-standers whispered among themselves, 
 "The Heaven be praised, — the queen ! " 
 
 The footmen jumped down, and unfolded the steps of the carriage, 
 whereupon a very quiet-looking little lady, in a long black velvet pelisse, 
 and close-fitting black velvet bonnet, descended, and, bowing to the 
 people on either side, passed into the house, followed by her lady-in- 
 waiting and two footmen. 
 
 The duty of the latter was to wait outside the inner door until the 
 queen re-appeared, when they would follow her down-stairs again. 
 
 When she walks about, it is with very little ceremony. Her lady- 
 in-waiting accompanies her, and she is followed by two footmen. As 
 she passes through the streets, it is customary for people to stand 
 aside, — - gentlemen lifting their hats, and ladies bowing, as she goes by. 
 
 Only once did I see the queen appear with any splendor. The
 
 130 The royal family. 
 
 day was very fine, brilliantly so, indeed ; and we went down to one of 
 the public squares to hear the military band play. Every day at one 
 o'clock a detachment of soldiers marches through certain streets of 
 the town, halting before the old palace, where a double line of soldiers 
 are drawn up, who present arms, and go through a very effective bit 
 of drill, the commanding-officers- riding up and down in their shining 
 uniforms, — blue and white, with silver lace, and splendid helmets and 
 plumes. This over, the band take their places on the portico of a large 
 building, where they play for an hour, while half of Munich walks 
 about listening. 
 
 The drill was over : the band was crashing away at the march from 
 "Tannhauser," when there came riding down the street a soldier on a 
 fine horse, whom we knew preceded the queen on a state occasion ; 
 and then followed her glass chariot, — a most curious affair, nearly all 
 of glass, — within which she was plainly to be seen, bowing right and 
 left, returning the salutations of the crowd. The chariot was drawn 
 by four horses, on two of which were postilions, who loudly cracked 
 their whips, while one man blew a horn. 
 
 As we walked away, rather dazzled by this shining spectacle, I re- 
 membered how very like a prince in a fairy tale the King of Bavaria 
 used to seem in his boyish days, — and had not this little lady driven 
 by with all the air of a magical godmother !
 
 END OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 
 
 By ARCHIBALD FORBES. 
 
 I WAS first introduced to Prince Louis — or, as we in England still 
 continued to call him, the Prince Imperial — at the annual dinner 
 of the Newspaper Press Fund in London in the year 1877. 
 
 He had made an excellent speech, and had met with a most enthu- 
 siastic reception. He was a young man of very bright parts, and, in 
 spite of obvious disadvantages, had distinguished himself not a little 
 in his studies at our Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, which he 
 attended as an artillery cadet. His two closest comrades there were 
 Slade and Bigge, both of whom were afterward in service with him in 
 Zululand. 
 
 Among those who looked below the surface, there was never any 
 doubt, and subsequent revelations have established the fact, that Prince 
 Louis volunteered to see fighting with the British troops in Zululand, 
 in order that, by gaining reputation for bravery in field-service there, he 
 might add personal prestige to his pretensions to the throne of France. 
 It was, then, something worse than a mistake on the part of the Brit- 
 ish authorities, or, rather, on the part of the great people of the British 
 Court, actively to aid an adventure, the covert purpose of which was 
 to further the subversion of the settled order of things, in a country 
 to which Britain stood in the attitude of a friendly ally. 
 
 Never of a strong constitution, Prince Louis was prostrated by 
 fever within a few days of his landing in South Africa. He insisted 
 on going under canvas, with a battery of artillery, the officers of which 
 were old friends of his, and which was encamped at Cato's Manor, just 
 outside Port Durban. A few days of this work knocked him over ; 
 and he had to go and be nursed in the house of a hospitable resident 
 of Durban, whose wife attended on the sick prince as if he had been 
 her own son. 
 
 131
 
 132 END OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 
 
 When he recovered, Lord Chelmsford, who commanded in South 
 Africa, attached him to his personal staff in the capacity of honorary 
 aide-de-camp ; and he accompanied his lordship to the Zululand fron- 
 tier, prior to the recommencement of active operations in May, 1879. 
 
 I met the prince very often during the weary time when the two 
 columns of the invading force were lingering at Landman's Drift and 
 Kambula, waiting for the full equipment that was to enable them to 
 commence their march of invasion. He had become informally attached 
 to the department of the quartermaster-general, Col. Harrison ; and he 
 was eager for employment on every reconnaissance made into the hostile 
 territory. He was singularly modest. When, at a camp-dinner, the 
 place of honor would be tendered him, he invariably declined with 
 firmness, but courtesy, protesting that he was "too junior." 
 
 For obvious reasons, I had never made any reference in conversa- 
 tion with him to the Franco-German war, that had wrecked his dy- 
 nasty ; but one day he voluntarily introduced the topic, and told me a 
 number of personal anecdotes concerning that stirring period. When 
 his father, himself, and the imperial suite were hurrying away from 
 Metz, to escape the environment that subsequently befell Bazaine's 
 army, they got jammed in a block of troops and vehicles on the chaus- 
 s/e leading to Gravelotte. There came a panic, and the imperial party 
 seemed hopelessly blocked in. But Prince Louis, in his rides during 
 his stay in Metz, had made himself acquainted with all the by-tracks. 
 One of these, a vineyard path, opened close to where the party was 
 blocked. Riding into it, with the exclamation, " Follow me, papa ! " 
 the boy of fourteen guided the whole cavalcade out of the press, and 
 led it by a wide but safe circuit through the vineyards to the house in 
 Gravelotte, where the halt for the night was arranged. 
 
 In one of the early reconnaissances into Zululand, he had exposed 
 himself with great recklessness, galloping headlong and alone into a 
 broken rocky country after some Zulus who had shown themselves ; 
 and, on hearing of this, Lord Chelmsford gave orders that he should 
 go on no expedition without his sanction. 
 
 In the same reconnaissance, he was so bent on roughing it, that he 
 had brought no blanket. The nights were very cold ; and when, in 
 bivouac, the sager troops lay snug under their blankets, he tramped 
 about to keep himself warm, singing meanwhile the French camp-song 
 of "Malbrook." At length, a rough trooper swore at him for "kick- 
 ing up that infernal row," and offered him half his blanket if he would 
 only lie down, and go to sleep.
 
 END OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 1 33 
 
 " The youngster is as keen as mustard," was the approving comment 
 of the old soldiers 
 
 At length the march of invasion began. The column which Lord 
 Chelmsford and the prince accompanied, lay encamped, on the morn- 
 ing of the 1st of June, at a spot called Koppie Allein, on the bank of 
 the Blood River, the boundary between the Transvaal and Zululand. 
 It was to march that day forward some seven miles to another en- 
 camping-ground, called Itelezi Hill. Already the ground, some distance 
 in advance, had been carefully scouted over, and found to be clear of 
 Zulus. A site for the halt next succeeding that at Itelezi Hill had 
 been chosen about ten miles forward from the latter camp, on level 
 ground close to the Ityotyosi River. 
 
 The prince had for three days been hard at desk-work, which he 
 abhorred ; and he asked Col. Harrison to let him go forward to the 
 Ityotyosi River, and plan the disposition of the camp to be formed 
 there. There seemed no risk, and Harrison consented without con- 
 sulting Lord Chelmsford. Lieut. Carey asked and got permission to 
 accompany the prince, to perfect a sketch, which he had already made, 
 of the tracks leading to the Ityotyosi camping-ground. 
 
 I was living with the general commanding the cavalry ; and I re- 
 member, as if it were but yesterday, Carey coming to Capt. Stewart, 
 the cavalry brigade major, for an escort. He asked and got authoriza- 
 tion for six white irregulars, and an equal number of Basutos, — black 
 troopers who were admirable scouts, and who can smell a Zulu a mile 
 away. Such an escort was adequate for any such service, and would 
 have been considered ample for the commander-in-chief himself. Carey 
 took the orders, and said that he would pick up the detachments as he 
 passed through the respective camps. Then he rode away. 
 
 He was in a hurry ; and so he took with him, as he rode on to 
 catch up with the prince, only the six white irregular troopers. The 
 Basutos required a little time to get ready ; so he did not wait for them, 
 but left instructions that they should ride forward, and overtake him, 
 indicating the route he was to take. By an unfortunate mistake, his 
 instructions were misunderstood ; and the black fellows, an hour after 
 Carey had gone, paraded in front of the cavalry headquarters. 
 
 They were ordered off at once to overtake Carey ; but they did 
 not succeed in striking his track, and, giving up the hunt, returned 
 into camp. Had the Basuto escort been with the prince, in all human 
 probability he would have been alive to-day. 
 
 That same night, as we were at dinner about seven, in Gen. Mar-
 
 134 END OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 
 
 shall's tent, a scared face looked in through the tent-door. It was 
 Harrison, who, with a broken, agitated voice, exclaimed, " My God ! the 
 Prince Imperial is killed ! " The ill news was too true. Carey and 
 four of the irregulars had brought back the wretched tidings. The 
 prince, two troopers, and a black interpreter, who had been with the 
 party, had been left on the field. 
 
 Next morning Gen. Marshall took out the cavalry brigade to re- 
 connoitre the ground, and bring in the bodies ; for, from the first, there 
 was no hope that any of the abandoned men were alive. Carey ac- 
 companied the party, as did the four troopers that had been of the 
 escort. Carey was not under arrest, and seemed nowise oppressed by 
 the gravity of his position. 
 
 We found the poor lad's body in a grassy hollow, about two hun- 
 dred yards distant from the kraal at which, on remounting after a 
 short rest, the party had been surprised by the Zulus. He was stripped 
 stark naked, one eye gouged out, his body literally covered with as- 
 segai stabs, and his left arm marked by countless cuts, as if he had 
 held it raised in self-defence. The two troopers lay near, slain also by 
 assegai wounds. On no corpse, either of the three human beings or 
 of the two slain horses, was there any mark of bullet-wound. The 
 interpreter's body was found a mile away. He had died game, after 
 clear evidence of a desperate hand-to-hand combat. 
 
 A court of inquiry inculpated Carey, who was almost immediately 
 brought to trial on a charge of "misbehavior in presence of the enemy." 
 It is curious, that just as in the German army, there is no bugle-sound 
 that means "retreat," so in the English military code, there is no spe- 
 cific mention of the crime of "cowardice." 
 
 I was present throughout the proceedings of the court-martial on 
 Lieut. Carey, heard all the evidence and his defence, and will now 
 attempt to give an impartial synopsis of the circumstances attending 
 the prince's untimely death. 
 
 First, the ground must be cleared of one complication. Carey could 
 not fairly be considered in command of the party. It was the prince's 
 expedition. True, Carey was the only commissioned officer of the 
 British army present, and obvious duties devolved upon him in that 
 capacity ; but the prince was understood to rank as honorary captain, 
 and so was in nominal command, having Carey merely as his guide, 
 philosopher, and friend. 
 
 After an hour's halt in the kraal by the Ityotyosi River, the horses 
 being off-saddled, and pasturing around, and the hour being nearly four,
 
 END OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 
 
 Carey suggested to the prince that it was time to move back to camp. 
 The black interpreter had reported having seen a Zulu prowling about 
 the river near by. The horses were caught and saddled, and the prince 
 gave the word of command to mount. 
 
 Just as feet were in stirrups, all the survivors agreed in testifying 
 that a volley of musketry 
 came into the party from 
 all round the edge of the 
 maize-field that formed a 
 semicircle round the east- 
 ern side of the kraal. 
 
 Carey said, that, when 
 mounting, he was on one 
 
 Death of Prince Napoleon. 
 
 side of a hut, the prince on the other ; that he saw the latter spring to 
 mount, and thought himself entitled to assume he was safe in the 
 saddle, like himself. All the troopers concurred in asserting that 
 Carey was the foremost fugitive, that he led the way at a gallop, with- 
 out looking back over the two hundred yards of sward, across the 
 ravine, or donga, and far up the rugged slope beyond. 
 
 Carey certainly could give no account of any thing that happened
 
 136 END OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 
 
 behind him after he fled away, till one of the troopers overtook him 
 on the high ground beyond the donga. Carey still wears the Queen's 
 uniform, the technical grounds of his exculpation being that he was a 
 scout, and, therefore, it was his duty to run, and not fight. 
 
 The prince never got mounted at all. His horse was restive, and 
 he would not stand. He ran by the side of the beast, one hand hold- 
 ing the reins, and clutching the pommel, the other in the cantle of the 
 saddle. One of the troopers, a Jersey man, passed him in this plight, 
 shouting, as he passed, — 
 
 " Dfyechcz-vous, monsieur" 
 
 Presently he was seen, by a trooper who looked back, to let go his 
 grip of the saddle, and fall backwards, the horse escaping at a head- 
 long gallop. The trooper thought the prince was shot, but this was 
 not so. The broad band of leather, linking the holsters, and crossing, 
 the pommel of the saddle, was what his right hand had been clutching 
 as he strove to spring into the saddle. This had torn under the strain ; 
 and so the prince had lost his grip, and fallen backward. I inspected 
 the rents next day, for the horse was brought into camp ; and I found 
 that the band which had given way was made, not of sound, stout 
 leather, but of a wretched substance that seemed brown paper. 
 
 And so, in a sense, it was not the Zulus that killed Prince Louis, 
 but the shoddy rascality of a firm of Woolwich saddlers. 
 
 After the poor lad, in losing his horse, had lost his last chance, he 
 ran, before the Zulus overtook him, nearly two hundred yards, till he 
 reached the little grassy ravine, or donga, where we found his body. 
 One of the troopers saw him disappear into the hollow of the donga 
 with the Zulus close at his heels. He never saw him emerge. He 
 never did emerge till we carried him out feet foremost. 
 
 Had any man of the party waited for him in comparative safety in 
 that donga, and taken him up behind him, there is a strong probability 
 that he would have been saved. I have seen many far more risky 
 enterprises crowned with success. But, when the prince was being 
 asscgaicd, the man who might have covered himself with credit by a 
 deed for the chance of which scores of men would burn, was flying 
 ventre a terre with panic at his heart, and words of abjectness on his 
 lips. 
 
 It remains to be said, that, after the most careful inspection, I 
 could find, around the kraal, and all over the ground, no wad or car- 
 tridge, or any evidence of the use of fire-arms by the Zulus. The cir- 
 cumstance that no man or horse was touched by a bullet confirms my
 
 END OF PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 137 
 
 deliberate belief that the attacking handful of Zulus were armed only 
 with assegais, and that the story of a volley was an invention of Carey 
 and the surviving troopers to palliate the disgrace of their common 
 poltroonery.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 IT is said there is a bird in the interior of Africa who indicates to 
 honey-hunters where the nests of wild bees are to be found, by 
 calling out to them with a cheerful cry. I always think of Leigh Hunt 
 as the honey-indicator of literature, calling to us in his sweet, per- 
 suasive way, to come and help ourselves to the choicest morsel in 
 English prose and poetry, the honeyed words of wit and wisdom, — 
 "infinite riches in a little room." 
 
 I do not wonder that Shelley called Hunt "one of those happy 
 souls which are. the salt of earth," for his works reveal only the 
 best thoughts in the best words. In one of his works, Hunt says his 
 object in writing is "to make the utmost of this green and golden 
 world, the smallest particle of whose surface we have not yet learned 
 to turn to account." There is nothing dark or desponding about him, 
 and he is always insisting that there is an "angel in the house." 
 
 It seems to be a sacred mission with him to preach everywhere in 
 his books the power of Love The words Gladness and Hopefulness 
 are constantly recurring in his thought-illumined pages. As I look 
 through his gracious essays, I find such seasonable precepts as are 
 rarely to be met with in modern books. The " charities that soothe 
 and heal and bless " were familiar acts to him, and he never parleyed 
 with doubt or fear. 
 
 His affections fertilized and blessed the hearts of all his readers. 
 His idolatries were only tendered to what is pure and noble in art. 
 You admire his enthusiasm because it is wisely bestowed. For in- 
 stance, when he has once taught his reader to discriminate what is true 
 in poetry, there never can be any further mistake in judgment. He is 
 almost infallible as a guide to the student. 
 >3« 

 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF LEIGH HUNT. 139 
 
 There never were greater felicities in diction than you will meet 
 with in Leigh Hunt's refreshing books. I remember he somewhere 
 calls a piano "a piece of furniture with a soul in it." (Think of this 
 when your sister is playing one of Chopin's enchanting preludes to 
 you, my young reader !) 
 
 He once called the ivory keys of a piano " a dancing and singing 
 multitude." There was a potent charm and unexpected playfulness in 
 every thing he wrote. Seeing a raindrop on a pane of glass, he called 
 the minute globule " a visitor from the solitudes of time." 
 
 Speaking one day of the journal he was then editing, he said, "We 
 hope we shall be thumbed horribly, and carried about in pockets like 
 a love-letter, or other certificate of merit." His gems of thought were 
 all of intrinsic value. 
 
 He was as personal an essayist as Montaigne, but never obtrusive 
 nor offensive. He liked to be candid with his readers, and always 
 treated them with open-heartedness and joyous cordiality. He was 
 constantly advising his reader to be cheerful, and trying to impress 
 this maxim, " that the great art is to cultivate impression of the pleas- 
 ant sort, just as a man will raise wholesome plants in his garden, and 
 not poisonous ones." 
 
 He begs us to put up pictures in our rooms, and flowers on the 
 table, saying that the fashion of roses never changes like that of silks 
 and velvets, and silver forks. 
 
 From his very boyhood he had acquired the alchemy of loving- 
 kindness. In all his writings, there is not one passage sullied by 
 temper, immodesty, or fractiousness. He has written on many sub- 
 jects, and he has treated all of them from the pleasant altitudes of 
 humanity. 
 
 It is delightful to see with what warmth the best of his contem- 
 poraries have spoken of him. Carlyle says, "He was a man of genius 
 in the strictest sense of that word." Hawthorne, who met him at the 
 table of Barry Cornwall, describes him as a beautiful old man, with 
 one of the finest countenances he ever saw. It is painful to be still 
 told that Dickens painted the character of Harold Skimpole after the 
 character of Leigh Hunt. We have the fullest authority from Dickens 
 himself to deny this ungenerous report. 
 
 Shelley, Keats, Macaulay, Hazlitt, Charles Lamb, Talfourd, Miss 
 Mitford, and a host of other celebrated writers, have borne testimony 
 to the sunshine of his genius and the purity of his character. His 
 whole life was up to a very high standard. He did nothing low or
 
 140 RECOLLECTIONS OF LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 mean, — a beautiful poet and an essayist, touching nothing he did not 
 brighten and adorn. 
 
 One of the most interesting books ever written is Leigh Hunt's 
 biography of himself, — an autobiography almost unequalled. It is a 
 book that ought to be read by all who wish to get authentic informa- 
 tion of Hunt's contemporaries. It abounds in pen-portraits of many 
 writers who have long ago passed into fame. 
 
 Leigh Hunt's poetry can be read over and over again. " The 
 Story of Rimini " is full of the subtle spirit which characterized 
 Chaucer and the earlier poets. " Abou ben Adhem " can never be 
 forgotten. "The Feast of the Poets" has never been equalled in its 
 way. 
 
 Leigh Hunt's prose-works are numerous. Every one of them is 
 worthy to be studied and remembered. "The Indicator," "The Seer," 
 "The Companion," "Imagination and Fancy," "Wit and Humor," "A 
 Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla," "A Book for a Corner," " The Re- 
 ligion of the Heart," are the titles of some of his most noted works. 
 Every one should read "The Correspondence of Leigh Hunt," as 
 edited by his oldest son. His Letters must always rank among the 
 most brilliant of English epistles. In these days when so many young 
 people are devouring flimsy and weakening novels, what a happy 
 change it would be if some of the best of Leigh Hunt's writings could 
 only come into fashion ! 
 
 My own personal recollections of Leigh Hunt are vivid and unfad- 
 ing. I seem now to hear his gentle, caressing voice, and his exquis- 
 itely modulated sentences. As he sat in the twilight, and described 
 Keats and Shelley to me, his face was flushed with fond and tearful 
 memories. As he went on talking in his inimitable, finished, and 
 charitable manner, I could not help recalling the motto at the head of 
 his London journal, — "To Assist the Inquiring, Animate the Strug- 
 gling, and Sympathize with All." 
 
 His mission seemed to be always to teach us "how to neutralize 
 the disagreeable, and make the best of what is before us." His per- 
 sonal appearance was most engaging ; his form erect and tall, bending 
 only to express the most exquisite and spontaneous courtesy. Indeed, 
 I never saw a human being more benignly attractive. 
 
 On the 28th of August, 1859, when lacking only two months of 
 completing his seventy-fifth year, Leigh Hunt quietly fell asleep. He 
 asked to be buried in Kensal-Green Cemetery, and his wish was 
 obeyed. Although his hair was white as snow, his dark eye remained
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF LEIGH HUNT. 141 
 
 full of sweet and tender recognition ; and his voice, to the last, was 
 expressive of sympathy for all that was loftiest and best. 
 
 He was passionately fond of music, and almost his last words were 
 in applause of an Italian song which his daughter was singing to him 
 a few moments before he passed away.
 
 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 I. 
 
 I ALWAYS think of my old friend as the Priestess of Cheerfulness. 
 Her laugh was musical, and her manner inspiring to that degree 
 we all felt our circulation quickened while in her presence. 
 
 She used to say to me, if her life were to be gone over again, she 
 would study medicine, and practise as a physician. And what a treas- 
 ure in the sick-room she would have become ! Her habitual sunny 
 disposition and tender sympathy would have been of themselves full 
 of healing-properties, and her touch would have been a sovereign 
 remedy for aches and bruises. 
 
 Hers was a life of strange vicissitudes. When she was eleven 
 : years old, she was sent to a young girls' school in London, and went 
 to her books of study in real earnest. As if French, Italian, history, 
 geography, astronomy, music, singing, drawing, were not enough to 
 employ her faculties, she thirsted for Latin, that she might read Virgil 
 in the original. If I remember rightly, she told me, that, when she 
 was fourteen or fifteen years old, she got the prizes for French, English, 
 and Latin compositions at the old-fashioned London school. 
 
 Mary was always a precocious child, and was able to read when she 
 was only three years old. When scarcely more than an infant, her 
 father used to perch her on the table, and teach her to recite poetry. 
 The ballads in Percy's " Reliques " were her delight, and, no doubt, 
 attuned her mind to the harmony of verse, and gave her a bias towards 
 the simple and natural in poetry. 
 
 Mary was a great reader, even in her early childhood. When 
 scarcely in her teens, she kept a journal of the books she was reading 
 142
 
 MARY RUSSELL MLTFORD. 1 43 
 
 at that period ; and I find fifty-five volumes set down as the number 
 of miscellaneous works she had perused in thirty-one days. She lit- 
 erally devoured whatever came in her way that was worth reading. 
 
 When still only a young lady, she became a writer herself. Having 
 the faculty of admiration for what is best in character and genius, a 
 happy quality worth acquiring by all young persons, she used to write 
 poems expressive of her feeling for the prominent poets and statesmen 
 of the day. In 1810 she published a volume of miscellaneous poetry; 
 and as the reviews were favorable, and the sale very fair, the young 
 lady was content. 
 
 But her genuine and crowning literary success was " Our Village," 
 a book of country-sketches ; and that book will never cease to be read. 
 Long ago it found its natural place among the books that must be 
 read at least once in everybody's lifetime. The locality of " Our Vil- 
 lage " is at "Three-Mile Cross," as it is called, near Reading in Eng- 
 land ; and I have many times ridden with the dear old lady, in her 
 little pony-chaise, miles and miles round about that charming country. 
 As we used to go quietly along the lovely roads, she would point out 
 the scene of this or that story, as she had written it out in her beau- 
 tiful pages. Her voice was one of the most magnetic I ever heard ; 
 and, when she repeated poetry, her tones were far above singing. On 
 such occasions, when the poems she repeated were specially dear to 
 her, I used to think, during the recitation, of the delicious music in 
 the first movement of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." 
 
 She was greatly interested in Longfellow's and Holmes's poems, 
 and knew many of them by heart. Whittier was also a great favorite ; 
 and his earlier ballads, especially that of "Cassandra Southwick," were 
 constantly in her memory for highest praise. She was greatly delighted 
 with Hawthorne's books, and he was one of her choicest heroes in 
 literature to the last. 
 
 Flowers and dogs were her pets. Over a bunch of geraniums she 
 would discourse eloquent thoughts, and I have heard her say the droll- 
 est things to her canine favorites. She never could be quite happy 
 without the company of at least one or two handsome dogs. She 
 loved horses, too, and knew their points accurately. 
 
 She died in 1855, a t the age of sixty-eight, worn out with constant 
 hard work begun at too early an age for continued sound health. For 
 years she nursed her mother and father through repeated illnesses with 
 unremitting care and affection. She told me she had scarcely known 
 an unbroken night's rest after she became old enough to tend upon the
 
 144 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 
 
 sick-bed of her dear parents. Intense repose and peace were on her 
 dead features, as if, at last, she was really taking a rest her anxious, 
 watchful life had never known. 
 
 II. 
 
 FROM MISS MITFORD'S LETTERS. 
 
 "I am in pain about this squabble with America.' If it comes to 
 fighting, it would seem to me like a civil war. Dear Mr. Fields says 
 that the Americans are much amused with Daniel Webster's fish 
 ebullition, on account of his known passion for fish in every way, — for 
 catching, cooking, and eating it. To have partaken of one of Daniel 
 Webster's fish-chowders at Marshfield forms an epoch in an Ameri- 
 can's life. I had three friends here, each of whom at different times 
 had enjoyed that honor. It is a sort of soup, composed of cod and 
 other materials ; and the great statesman leaves whatever guests he 
 may have, to compose it with his own hands. Dear Mr. Fields says, 
 that, if it comes to a war, he will side with England, as becomes a man 
 who has eaten, half a score of times, whitebait at Blackwall. I must 
 tell you a conversation he had with Carlyle at some great dinner (you 
 know what a blusterer Carlyle is). 
 
 " ' So, sir, ye're an American ? ' quoth the self-sufficient Scotchman. 
 
 " Mr. Fields assented. 
 
 " • Ah, that's a wretched nation of your ain ! It's all wrong. It 
 always has been wrong from the vera beginning. That grete mon of 
 yours, — George ' — (did any one under the sun ever dream of calling 
 Washington George before?) — 'your grete mon George was a mon- 
 strous bore, and wants taking down a few hundred pegs.' 
 
 "'Really, Mr. Carlyle,' replied my friend, 'you are the last man 
 in the world from whom I should have expected such an observation. 
 Look at your own book on Cromwell ! What was Washington but 
 Cromwell, without his personal ambition, and without his fanaticism ? ' 
 
 " ' Eh, sir ! ' responded Carlyle, ' George had neither ambition nor 
 religion, nor any good quality under the sun, — George was just Oliver 
 with all the juice squeezed out ! ' 
 
 " I wish you had heard Mr. Fields tell this story. I have known 
 many brilliant talkers, but never any one that approached him. It is 
 the triumph of meekness and animal spirits without noise or abrupt- 
 
 1 Fishery dispute in 1852.
 
 MARY RUSSELL M1TF0RD. 1 45 
 
 ness, — full of enjoyment, and perfectly unconscious. His conversa- 
 tion is for your pleasure and his own, without an idea of display. 
 Another thing in Carlyle displeased him far more. Every one knows 
 that Emerson makes him a perfect idol ; and it was thought, that, if 
 Carlyle cared for any one in the world, it was for Emerson. I have 
 heard it said of them, they are not only like brothers, but like twin- 
 brothers. Well, remember that Emerson and Hawthorne both live 
 at Concord, and you will appreciate the kindness of Mr. Carlyle's 
 speech. 
 
 " ' Isna there a place called Concord near ye ? What like is it ? ' 
 
 " ' A pretty little New-England town,' was Mr. Fields's answer, 'of 
 no political importance, but lively and pleasant as a residence.' 
 
 " ' Pretty ? Lively ? Ye ken I had fancied it to be a dull, dreary 
 place, wi' a drowsy river making believe to creep through it, slow and 
 muddy and stagnant, like the folk that inhabit it.' 
 
 " So much for Mr. Carlyle, who has had the double misfortune of 
 writing according to the humor — that is, the ill-humor — of the mo- 
 ment, without the slightest regard to consistency and truth, and to be 
 surrounded by none but admirers, or listeners borne down by mere 
 noise. In England, his fashion is waning rapidly ; and I have no doubt 
 but that, like most overrated men, he will live to share the common 
 fate of idols, knocked down by his former worshippers in revenge of 
 their own idolatry. 
 
 " Mr. Fields is coming back in the spring, thank God ! and means to 
 bring Mr. Hawthorne with him. He wants him to write a romance 
 on Sefton Court, with which he has been more struck than any other 
 thing he has seen in England. He also hopes to bring Dr. Holmes, 
 my pet of pets. 
 
 " Did I tell you that my beloved friend Mr. Fields, the American 
 publisher, had collected seven volumes of Mr. De Ouincey's books, 
 dispersed over different magazines, and published them at Boston, and 
 that, the last thing before sailing, he took down to him the author's 
 profits on a sale of three thousand copies ? Now, this was the more 
 noble and generous because, to three letters from Boston conveying 
 this offer, Mr. De Quincey had sent no answer whatever ; and, even 
 when this admirable edition was published, Miss De Quincey only 
 wrote. However, on his arrival, they were mutually charmed. Mr. 
 Fields said that Mr. De Quincey was the most courtly gentleman he 
 had seen in Europe."
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 WHEN I was a small urchin, and heard grown-up people talking 
 enthusiastically about " Lamb's Tales," I thought, as a matter 
 of course, they were conversing about something to eat ; for the sub- 
 ject of food is commonly uppermost in a boy's mind. I remember 
 watching the woolly flocks in our neighborhood as they nibbled the 
 grass, and wondering how people cooked those stumpy appendages. 
 
 But, as I grew older, I came to learn, that, although " Lamb's 
 Tales " were not what I imagined them to be, they were far more 
 nutritious, and eminently worthy of all the praise I had heard bestowed 
 upon them. 
 
 It is well for us all to accustom the mind to keep the best com 
 pany by introducing it only to the best books. What precious time is 
 thrown away in days like these, on the habitual perusal of works that 
 ought never to have been written ! Why should we go about to dis- 
 cover what is the newest publication, and what is the name of the 
 writer of it, when, in all modern English literature, there is no name 
 more fragrant than that of the author of " Elia's " essays ? 
 
 With a wit that was almost unrivalled, he had the indigenous fac- 
 ulties of courtesy, generosity, humanity, and benignity. Scarcely any 
 modern essayist so feeds and fertilizes the mind as Charles Lamb ; 
 for he was endowed with that inexplicable power called charm, which 
 holds the reader like a spell. He makes us love him, as we turn his 
 pages, as few authors are ever enabled to do. 
 
 Much as he relished the elegancies and luxuries of life, he had a 
 
 still higher relish for the luxury of goodness. All his impulses tended 
 
 towards the poor and the silent. The very clay of which he was 
 
 formed seemed to have a kind of brotherly religion in its composition ; 
 
 and, as Coleridge one day said of him, " All things are shadows to 
 i 4 6
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 H7 
 
 Lamb, except those which move the affections. No power on earth 
 can hurt the purity of his mind." 
 
 De Ouincey says, that, after dinner, when they were together, 
 Lamb and he always took a short nap in the afternoon, and that he, 
 De Quincey, sometimes pretended to go to sleep first, that he might 
 watch Lamb, looking like an angel, in his serene, unconscious slumber. 
 
 When Lord Brooke was about to die, he requested that it might 
 be graven on his tomb that " Sir Philip Sidney was his friend," con- 
 sidering that statement to be fame enough for any man ; and just that 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 feeling all who had enjoyed the friendship of Charles Lamb had about 
 him. It was honor enough to have known him intimately. 
 
 Lamb was a poor man's son, a poor man himself, — bitterly poor 
 for many a year of his toiling existence. On the records of Christ's 
 Hospital in London, I once read this entry : — 
 
 "October 9, 1782. Charles Lamb, aged seven years. Son of John Lamb, 
 Scrivener, and Elizabeth, his wife." 
 
 During eight years, Charles remained a scholar in that noble es- 
 tablishment. His bosom-friend among the boys was Samuel Taylor 
 Coleridge, also a charity scholar in the same "foundation." 
 
 These lads are described — the one twelve years old, and the elder
 
 148 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 (Coleridge) two years his senior — strolling up and down the cloisters ; 
 and he they call "The Inspired Charity Boy," young Sam, is reciting 
 Pindar in Greek to his companion, and commenting freely, in his sweet 
 intonations, on the ancient bard. Lamb is entranced in admiration 
 of Coleridge's learning, and worships him as the god of his young 
 idolatry. Both pupils are above their years in knowledge, far higher 
 up in learning than any of their contemporaries at the school ; and a 
 brace of loving friends they remain all their lives. 
 
 At the age of fifteen, Lamb took up his pen as an accountant, to 
 earn his own living, and help support the old mother and father, and 
 delicate sister, at home. Would you mind lifting the latch with me, 
 and looking in upon this humble family, as they sit around the table in 
 their modest lodgings at No. 7 Little Queen Street, in Holborn ? 
 
 It is the year 1796, and the kind old father is rapidly sinking into 
 dotage. The good mother has lost the use of her limbs, poor soul ! 
 and infirmities are increasing upon her. Mary, the sister, is her daily 
 and nightly attendant, and takes in needlework, that she may add her 
 mite to their slender resources. 
 
 There they sit, — father, mother, sister, and brother, — by candle- 
 light, Charles amusing the old gentleman by playing cribbage with him, 
 tired though the poor lad may be, and ready to drop with hard work at 
 the office. Their income, all told, is one hundred and eighty pounds 
 a year ; and Charles, at that time writing to his young friend, Coleridge, 
 says, " If we can't all live comfortably on this sum, we ought to roast 
 by slow fires." 
 
 Soon a great tragedy befalls this family ; and Lamb, at the age of 
 twenty-one, finds himself desolate with grief, and almost in despair. 
 Rallying from the blow, he sets himself resolutely to work again, and 
 soon becomes a writer for the principal magazine of that day, month 
 after month inditing those exquisite " Elia " papers, which have given 
 him perpetuity in fame. 
 
 Tom Hood said of Lamb's face, " It was no common countenance, 
 — none of those willow-pattern ones, which Nature turns out by thou- 
 sands at her potteries, — but more like a chance specimen of the 
 Chinese ware, — one to the set, unique, antique, quaint." 
 
 And of this precise individuality were Lamb's writings. They 
 stand quite by themselves, and belong to none of the so-called 
 "schools." He gathered manna in the most unpromising wildernesses, 
 and seemingly barren rocks had moisture in them for his purposes. 
 
 Byron used to be called the spoiled child of fortune. Lamb might
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 1 49 
 
 be denominated the unspoiled child of misfortune, for poverty and 
 disease were not infrequently his close companions. But how uncom- 
 plainingly he always speaks of his ailments ! One day he wrote to his 
 friend, Bernard Barton, " I have only cough and cramp upon me now, 
 and we sleep three in a bed." He was never conceited or petulant, 
 but always gentle, loving, and generous. 
 
 I cannot too strongly recommend young people to make acquaint- 
 ance with the writings of Charles Lamb. Every thing published con- 
 nected with his name is valuable. His letters are models, and rank 
 with the best specimens of epistolary literature in the language. 
 
 The "Tales from Shakspeare," by Charles and his sister Mary, are 
 delightful helps to a better understanding of the plays, — the best, in 
 fact, ever prepared for youthful readers. Macaulay used to read them 
 over and over with fresh enthusiasm. 
 
 The juvenile works by Lamb and his sister are admirable, and will 
 not stuff the head, and starve the heart, like much that is written 
 nowadays for young people. Lamb's poems are full of pure senti- 
 ment, expressed sometimes in a very quaint and original manner. 
 Some of his verses once learned can never be obliterated from the 
 memory. In such pieces as "Angel Help," "Herbert," and "The 
 Christening," we recognize a master's hand, — not a great master in 
 verse, but a very devout and skilful one. He had that priceless qual- 
 ity of intellect, a capacity for veneration, which is always indicative of 
 superior intelligence. 
 
 Lamb's sympathies through life were with the humblest first. He 
 liked chimney-sweeps, especially the young ones, whom he called " in- 
 nocent blacknesses." He said the little fellows preached a lesson of 
 patience to mankind from their narrow pulpits (the tops of chimneys) 
 in the nipping air of a December morning. 
 
 A lonely, childless man himself, he dearly loved little children. 
 He could not bear to think of them as being trundled off to bed alone 
 at eight o'clock in the dark, and he pleads from his heart to have the 
 candle left a-burning until poor nervous Tom and Alice drop fast 
 asleep in their downy cribs. 
 
 Homely dwellings and plain hospitality were the magnets that drew 
 him oftenest. Old books, old chairs, old tables, old china, old com- 
 panions, he loved most to see about him. He used to say, with Shak- 
 speare, "The heavens themselves are old /" 
 
 His jests are rememberable, oftentimes for their wisdom, as well 
 as their fun ; as when somebody was discoursing to him one day of
 
 150 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 the three acids, and he said, " You have not mentioned the best one, — 
 assid-uity." He said one day of a lady, " She is not an intellectual 
 woman : she is only tinted with intellect." They were speaking once 
 at Proctor's of a person who had gone wrong ; and a lady present said, 
 with much feeling, — 
 
 "Oh ! where was his guardian angel ? " 
 "Maybe, marm," returned Lamb, "he tired him out." 
 Lamb's lifelong devotion to his poor insane sister Mary is one of 
 the most beautiful traits in the annals of affectionate care. His inter- 
 est in early life had been strongly drawn towards a sweet young girl 
 every way worthy of his attachment ; but he smothered the feeling in 
 his breast, and resolved that no earthly tie should ever be permanently 
 formed that might interpose a divided duty between him and his unfor- 
 tunate sister. And so he put aside all thought of happiness in mar- 
 riage, and lived solely to protect and cherish the stricken woman by 
 his side. 
 
 Wordsworth, in his most tender and pathetic lines, written after 
 the death of Lamb, says, — 
 
 '• Oh, he was good, if e'er a good man lived ! " 
 
 And Barry Cornwall, who loved Charles Lamb with undying affec- 
 tion, tells us that " Elia " never "gave pain to a human being, and his 
 genius yielded nothing but instruction and delight." 
 
 Should chance ever lead any of my readers, when in England, to 
 visit Edmonton, in Middlesex, they will find the resting-place of 
 Charles and Mary in the churchyard there. The brother and sister 
 are lying in the same grave, and a tall upright stone indicates the 
 hallowed spot. 
 
 " Still are they faithful : like two vessels launched 
 From the same beach one ocean to explore."
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 I SUPPOSE everybody calls this author Tom Hood because every- 
 body regards him with a kind of affection, just as we lovingly 
 handle our brothers and cousins and school-fellows as Bill and Ned and 
 Dick, and never loftily call them William, Edward, and Richard. 
 
 Let us be grateful to those beneficent authors who, in their works, 
 have taught us to be cheerful, — men who have written " Pickwick 
 Papers," and "Punch Papers," and " Sparrowgrass Papers," and all 
 other kinds of papers, to make us laugh and be happy together. Mil- 
 ton was a serious man for the most part ; but even Puritan John, coming 
 to himself, sang out lustily, — 
 
 " Mirth, admit me of thy crew, — 
 
 Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
 Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
 Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
 Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles. 
 
 Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, 
 And Laughter holding- both his sides." 
 
 " To every thing there is a season," says the best of books ; and I 
 am very glad a time to laugh is especially enumerated among those 
 seasons. 
 
 But there is a kind of humor abroad in the world which is to be 
 avoided everywhere. Indelicacy is never funny. Vulgarity is always 
 out of place. The man who implants in my memory a coarse story, 
 or a broad jest, does me an injury for life, and is forever odious in my 
 recollection. I thank no one for trying to make me laugh at the 
 expense of decency. Who would not like to go out of the world as
 
 152 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Hood did, feeling sure that he had never given pain to any one's sense 
 of refinement, but that he had added smiles, not tears, to human life ? 
 
 Hood's unsullied pages are as nutritious and comforting as they 
 are amusing. When you have a rebellious tooth, or a wicked head- 
 ache, or an extra screw of rheumatism, or a stab in the back by a 
 false friend, overhaul your Tom Hood, and, my word for it, you will 
 feel better for the operation. One day I heard this order given from 
 a sick-bed, " Bring a bowl of gruel and the second volume of • Hood's 
 Own ; ' and it sounded most sensible and encouraging. I once asked 
 a friend, who had long and dangerous illnesses, what he took when 
 the spasms were severest ; and he replied, " ' Pickwick Papers ' and 
 ' Pagsley Papers' mixed." 
 
 Blessings, I say, on all who have contributed to the harmless 
 laughter and simple amusement of mankind ; who have aided and 
 abetted in the cause of human love and charity, — the " week-day 
 preachers," as Thackeray calls them, who have done what they could 
 to help a universal good will to man. How to make people happier is 
 one of the noblest employments of man or woman kind ; how to be 
 generous and forgiving to frailty ; how to be helpful to the poor ; how 
 to encourage the weak and the suffering ; how to be neighborly and 
 considerate towards young persons, and very tenderly disposed towards 
 the feelings of little children, who have a difficult time of it, poor 
 things ! for lack of sympathy, and are shovelled off to bed at eight 
 o'clock, while everybody else is having a good time down-stairs. Now, 
 all these amenities of life Tom Hood came on a special mission to teach 
 us in his cheerful pages. He was a wit, a humorist, a satirist, but 
 never a buffoon. Great artists in fun, like Shakspeare and Dickens 
 and Hood, are always masters of the revels, but are never mastered 
 by them. 
 
 The year Campbell published his " Pleasures of Hope" (1799) was 
 the year Hood was born. As soon as little Tom was old enough, he 
 was apprenticed to an engraver ; for he had a knack at drawing, even 
 in those early days : and this accomplishment served him well in his 
 after-pursuits. It is said that the famous Hogarth could sketch a 
 likeness on his thumb-nail when occasion required, and Hood had the 
 same facility from boyhood. It is a great addition to any one's life to 
 know how to draw, and it is something that can be readily learned in 
 youth. Nothing is more useful to a traveller than the power to sketch 
 the countries he is passing through ; and Hood and Thackeray held a 
 ready pencil, which they employed to great advantage all their lives long.
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 1 53 
 
 During Hood's boyhood, he was the support of his mother, and 
 worked steadily to keep her comfortable. Everybody who knew little 
 Tom in those days loved him, he was so full of fun and unselfishness. 
 When he was fifteen years old, he fell into ill-health from overwork, 
 and was taken to Dundee for change of air, which air he did not 
 enjoy; for, writing home some descriptive verses of Dundee, he 
 
 says, — 
 
 " It abounds so in smells, that a stranger supposes 
 The people are very deficient in noses." 
 
 When he was twenty years old, he laid down the graver, and took up 
 the pen for a permanent instrument. He soon got employment as 
 associate editor on the staff of the " London Magazine," and his clever- 
 ness attracted the immediate attention of Coleridge and Charles Lamb. 
 Henceforward he became an author for life, and gained his daily bread 
 by literature. Although he indulged habitually in comic writing, he 
 always dressed in full black, and commonly passed for a clergyman. 
 His marriage was a very happy one ; but he could not resist playing 
 off all sorts of pranks on his good-natured wife, who took every thing 
 in good part, like a sensible woman as she was. 
 
 Ill-health followed poor Hood through his whole career. Long- 
 fellow, who called to see him one day in 1843, with Dickens, described 
 the poet to me as a small, thin man, looking very pale and worn, not 
 saying much himself, but listening to Dickens with evident affection 
 and interest. A perfectly well day Hood never experienced for twenty- 
 five years ; but his good spirits never deserted him, and his most 
 humorous productions were composed when disease was preying most 
 severely upon him. When the doctor told him that many of his pains 
 came from the fact, that, anatomically, his heart was placed lower down 
 than is usual, he replied, " The more need for me to keep it up, then." 
 
 One day he said to his wife, " Never let us meet trouble half way, 
 but let him have the whole walk for his pains." His energy and good 
 spirits triumphed always over all oppositions to health and personal 
 comfort. His famous poem of "Miss Kilmansegg" was written under 
 the most adverse circumstances, when he was suffering from weakness 
 occasioned by loss of blood, and when he was kept alive only by the 
 doctor's utmost skill. When the house was quiet, and everybody else 
 had gone to bed, that was his time for writing. The family used to 
 hear him laughing to himself as he jotted down his whimsical fancies ; 
 and some of his most elaborate works were prepared in this way, as he 
 sat or reclined on the sofa alone past midnight.
 
 *54 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Even in summer his blood was so low sometimes that he shivered 
 as if it were the dead of winter. " My hands are so cold," he writes 
 to Dr. Elliot, " that I sit up, like Sir Roger de Coverley's literary 
 ancestor, and write sonnets with my gloves on." Poor Hood ! He 
 overheard his two children disputing about himself one day. " Papa's 
 a literary man," said Fanny. " He's not," replied her brother. " I 
 
 know what he is." — " What 
 is he, then ? " cried Fanny ; 
 and the boy replied, " He's 
 not a literary man : he's an 
 invalid." 
 
 In one of his prefaces, 
 written after a long and 
 severe illness, Hood 
 tells his readers, "As 
 to my health, which 
 is the weather of the 
 body, it hails, it rains, 
 it blows, it snows, at 
 present ; but it may 
 clear up by and by. 
 Things may take a 
 turn, as the pig said 
 on the spit." His for- 
 titude and fun under 
 trouble never desert- 
 ed him. He never 
 repined, or uttered a 
 complaint. 
 
 He was only forty- 
 six years old when he 
 died. A year before he passed away, he wrote to Dr. Elliot on his 
 birthday, " I am forty-five ; but I can't tell you how old I feel. I seem 
 old enough to be your grandfather ! " Poor sufferer ! From his boy- 
 hood it had been a hand-to-hand fight between him and death, and 
 the great conqueror cut him down at last. One day he said to some 
 friends, that his condition would be irksome enough, but for the com- 
 fort and consolation he derived from the diversions of authorship, and 
 the blessed springs of literature. 
 
 When they were getting up a subscription in London for his monu- 
 
 Thomaa Hood.
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 J 55 
 
 ment, some of the most distinguished names in England were promi- 
 nent on the list ; but, to my thinking, those small sums that came up 
 from the working-people of Manchester and Bristol and Preston, far 
 outweighed the piles of guineas poured out by the great ones. 
 
 Some of those little packages, that were sent in from the working- 
 districts, were marked, " From a few poor needle-women," " From 
 seven dressmakers," " From twelve poor men in the coal-mines." The 
 rich gave of their abundance to honor the wit ; the Englishman of 
 genius, the great author ; but the poor women of Britain remembered 
 who it was that sang the "Song of the Shirt," and "The Bridge of 
 Sighs ; " and, down there in their dark dens of sorrow and poverty, 
 they resolved to send up their mite, though coined out of heart's 
 blood, for the good man's monument. They had heard all about their 
 dying friend, who had been pleading their cause through so many 
 years. They knew that he had been sending out from his sick-cham- 
 ber lessons of charity and forbearance, reminding Wealth of Want, 
 Feasting of Fasting, and Society of Solitude and Despair. 
 
 Hood's breath of life, so fitful for years, went out at last without 
 a struggle or a sigh. The month of May was always an eventful one 
 to him. He was born in May, married in May, and was laid to rest 
 among the pink and white blossoms of May. Just as the service ended 
 at his grave, his son noticed that a lark rose up from the spot, and 
 went mounting and singing over the mourners' heads. Who shall say 
 that the soul of the poet was not companioned thus up to the very 
 gate of heaven ? 
 
 Hood was indeed a boon to the literature of this century ; for he 
 had, not only the language of genius, but the genius of language as 
 well. He was facile priuceps in diction as well as in thought. The 
 ground he occupies is an exceptional one, quite as peculiar to himself 
 as that which belongs to Tennyson or Dickens. He is no reproduc- 
 tion of anybody else. He is nobody's echo, nobody's mantle-bearer. 
 He is Hood the Only, just as the Germans claim for Jean Paul that 
 special distinction of individuality. 
 
 Hood, for a long time, drew all the fire of dulness upon his writ- 
 ings. His critics could not understand the wisdom of his wit and 
 humor ; and so they railed at him as a joker of jokes, and a mere jester 
 where lengthy visages were demanded. But he lived down opposition, 
 and became one of the most cordially greeted among the authors of 
 his day. Praise was lavished upon him at last ; but he was made of 
 unspoilable stuff, and so was never tarnished by applause. He had
 
 156 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 that moral force which is never blinded by the dazzling light of popu- 
 lar admiration, but keeps right on in its brave endeavor to reform 
 injustice, and every kind of opposition to what he considered Human 
 Rights for all. 
 
 It is a very pleasant duty I have in commending Hood to the 
 young, for there is no name enshrined with more that is commendable 
 than his. We sit down to read him as we would listen to a friend by 
 our own fireside ; and, when we part company with him, we trust he 
 will come again soon. We include him among our intimate and close 
 companions, — with Irving and Dickens and Charles Lamb and Gold- 
 smith and Burns ; for he never bores us, as some authors do, by staying 
 too long:.
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, conversing one day at Abbotsford with 
 Washington Irving about our modern English poetry, declared 
 that Campbell's pieces were "real diamonds, and diamonds, too, of the 
 first water ; for poetry," said the author of "Waverley," "goes by qual- 
 ity, not by bulk." 
 
 Among the famous authors who sleep in Westminster Abbey, there 
 is no bard whose grave is more familiar to American footprints than 
 that of the author of " Hohenlinden." One of the first pieces our 
 school-boys learn to declaim is Campbell's " On Linden, when the sun 
 was low ; " and the young orator rarely forgets how he broke down 
 emphatically, on his first trial, just where " Iser was rolling rapidly," 
 or at that critical period where " furious Frank and fiery Hun " were 
 shouting in "their sulphurous canopy ! " 
 
 In my own case, I remember I gave out ignominiously at that tre- 
 mendous passage where "every charger neighed to join the dreadful 
 revelry." If a trembling urchin in our school got on to "every turf 
 beneath their feet " without prompting, we all looked up to that lad as 
 cut out for distinction ; and we lent him marbles, if he wished to borrow 
 them, without collateral security. 
 
 That spirited, immortal lyric, "On Linden," was written upon an 
 event which the author himself witnessed. In December of the year 
 1800, a great battle was fought between the French and Austrians at 
 Hohenlinden, a village in Bavaria ; and Campbell climbed up the walls 
 of the monastery of St. Jacob, and saw the dreadful carnage all around 
 him, — a fire seven miles in circumference covering the scene of 
 slaughter. 
 
 It is said, that, when Campbell sent his now famous poem to be 
 
 157
 
 158 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 printed in a newspaper in England, there appeared this paragraph 
 among the " Notices to Correspondents : " — 
 
 " To T. C. — The lines commencing ' On Linden, when the sun was low,' are not 
 up to our standard. Poetry is evidently not T. C.'s forte." 
 
 What a comment on the perspicacity of those who sometimes sit 
 in judgment at the editorial desk ! 
 
 He was only thirteen years old when he donned the red gown, and 
 went up to the University of Glasgow. The morning he entered as a 
 student found him, he tells us, like a race-horse on the day he knows 
 he is to be brought to the race-course, and is so agitated he refuses 
 his oats. " So it was with me," says Campbell, " the day I was to 
 enter college. The joy of the occasion made me quite unable to eat 
 my breakfast." 
 
 Before many months had elapsed, the enthusiastic young scholar 
 began to take prizes for English and Latin verse. In Greek, too, he 
 began very early to excel, and soon distanced his whole class in trans- 
 lation. 
 
 Young Campbell was so desirous to see himself in type, even at 
 this stage of his college life, that he used to print his own short poems, 
 and then sell them at a penny each to his class-fellows, in order to de- 
 fray the expenses. A Glasgow man remembers seeing the beautiful 
 boy stand at the college-gate with the printed slips in his hand. 
 
 At fifteen years of age, we find the young fellow appointed exam- 
 iner of exercises sent in by the other members of the college. He 
 gave special attention to elocution in those days ; and having a deep, 
 melodious voice, and great acuteness in argument, he soon became 
 the acknowledged leader in a debating society. His gay and social 
 disposition, unassuming manners, and remarkable personal attractions, 
 soon made him a welcome companion everywhere. 
 
 When he was seventeen years old, the college faculty, as a reward 
 for his exemplary conduct, gave him leave to visit Edinburgh for the 
 first time; and it shows the bent of his inclination toward public 
 speaking, that, on arriving in the old city, he at once made his way to 
 the court-house, for the purpose of witnessing an important trial then 
 going forward. 
 
 He stood among the spectators, entranced with the Lord Advo- 
 cate's eloquent argument ; but, when Mr. Gerald spoke for the defence, 
 young Campbell was in raptures, and, turning to a stranger near him, 
 whispered, in tones of astonishment, —
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1 59 
 
 " By Heavens, sir, that is a great man ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir," the stranger answered. " He is not only a great man 
 himself, but he makes every other man in the court-house feel great 
 who listens to him." 
 
 That trial, which was one for political liberty, made Campbell a lover 
 of freedom from that hour ; and his whole after-life was inflamed and in- 
 fluenced by it. What he did for Poland in her terrible struggle, how he 
 spoke and wrote in her defence, and how he defended the rights of man 
 on every soil, is now patent to the whole liberty-loving race of mankind. 
 
 When young Campbell left college, with all the honors of his uni- 
 versity, he found himself too poor to study a profession ; and the cele- 
 brated Napier family secured him as a tutor for a short time. 
 
 His outlook was far from encouraging ; and he had serious thoughts, 
 as Goldsmith and Coleridge had before him, of trying his future in 
 America. If he had carried out this intention, his personal observa- 
 tion would never have allowed him to make such an unfortunate blun- 
 der in natural history as he has achieved in his "Pleasures of Hope," 
 when he sings about the tigers that steal along on Erie's banks ! 
 
 While the bloom was still on his cheek, and the light of morning 
 in his eye, Campbell leaped into the arena of song with his immortal 
 "Pleasures of Hope." He was scarcely more than a boy when he 
 wrote and printed the poem ; but he struck the keynote of that faith 
 and confidence in God which find a quick response in the longing, 
 trusting human heart. His harp rang out a welcome strain so loud 
 and clear that the world stopped to listen, and rejoice over his advent 
 into the world of poesy. 
 
 " The Pleasures of Hope " was a wonderful production for a lad 
 just out of college, thickly adorned with almost inspired lines, —lines 
 worthy of a veteran bard. "The strength of the eagle," says Hallam, 
 "is to be measured, not only by the height of his place, but by the 
 time he continues on the wing ; " and young Campbell, in his first 
 essay, proved himself fully capable of a sustained effort. 
 
 It is great good fortune for a poet to make a hit at starting. 
 Many a writer tarries in the Calypso Island until the sun has gone 
 down, and Ithaca is still afar. At an age when most young men are 
 students, Campbell had compassed fame. 
 
 "The Pleasures of Hope" was published in April, 1799, when the 
 author was not quite twenty-two ; and he at once became a noted 
 character, the best society in Edinburgh flinging its doors wide open 
 to the full-fledged young singer.
 
 i6o 
 
 THOAfAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Dugald Stewart, Henry Mackenzie, James Graham, and Henry 
 Erskine took him by the hand as an equal, and gave him just that 
 medicine of recognition which puts health and heart into a young 
 author. Men of supreme genius and learning smiled a welcome upon 
 him at once, and hailed his coming with a volley of bravos which he 
 
 never forgot. 
 
 Among those who joined in the ac- 
 clamation was the famous Madame de 
 Stael, who said she was so captivated 
 with one episode in 
 the poem, that she 
 read it twenty times, 
 over, without lessen- 
 ing the admiration a 
 first perusal had awak- 
 ened in her mind. 
 
 I have always 
 thought that Camp- 
 bell's inspiration in 
 truth came from the 
 Bible in a marked de- 
 gree. " The Pleas- 
 ures of Hope " will 
 be found imbued with 
 the very spirit of 
 prophecy, drawn from 
 that never-failing 
 fount which "flows 
 fast by the oracle of 
 God." 
 
 As the glowing student hung over the pages of that old book of 
 piety and imagination, his young heart went out in strains of faith and 
 confidence and verity. He saw, as he went sounding on, what treas- 
 ures of poetry came welling up to him out of that sacred shrine, and 
 he could not choose but sing. I can imagine him poring over the 
 Book of Exodus, and lingering with a thrill of satisfied wonder over 
 such passages as these : " And it came to pass, that in the morning 
 watch the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the 
 pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians." 
 '• And Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea shore." " With the 
 
 Thomas Campbell.
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. l6l 
 
 blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, the floods 
 stood upright as an heap, and the depths were congealed in the heart 
 of the sea." 
 
 No doubt, too, that the splendid imagery of the one hundred and 
 fourth psalm touched the inmost soul of the young man, and that he 
 trembled with emotion over such a glorious outburst as this : " Thou 
 art clothed with honor and majesty. Who coverest thyself with light 
 as with a garment : who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain : who 
 layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters : who maketh the 
 clouds his chariot : who walketh upon the wings of the wind." 
 
 There are ample evidences in Campbell's poems, that he was a close 
 student of the literature of all those ancient books so full of hallowed 
 meaning to a young and sensitive spirit like his. There were no vol- 
 umes in the college library, or in any other library, with equal utter- 
 ances of sublime poetry in them ; and his mother's Bible was Campbell's 
 most inspiring book. 
 
 When Campbell walked into the bower of English poesy, and began 
 to sing, Cowper and Burns were still alive : and both of them, no 
 doubt, read with delight this new venture, — " The Pleasures of Hope ; " 
 for no poem ever made wider mark all over Great Britain. It fairly 
 captivated the country from land's end to land's end, and everybody 
 who read poetry at all went about quoting the harmonious numbers. 
 Even little children committed to memory long passages from the 
 episodes about Poland and Liberty. 
 
 " Hope for a season bade the world farewell, 
 And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell," 
 
 was in everybody's mouth before the summer of 1799 was over. The 
 poem was immediately republished in America, with all the honors, 
 except that very important one of letting the author have a share of 
 the profits. 
 
 We get a charming glimpse of the young poet's mother, in the 
 pride of maternal heart over her gifted child, as she appeared one day, 
 about this period of her son's fame, in a silk-mercer's shop at Glasgow. 
 
 The old Scotch lady had bought a shawl ; and, when the parcel was 
 folded, the usual inquiry was made as to where it should be sent. The 
 proud parent of the poet drew herself up, and replied, with conscious 
 dignity, — 
 
 " Send it to Mrs. Campbell of Kirnan, mother of the author of ' The 
 Pleasures of Hope.' "
 
 1 62 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 There are poems by Campbell which can be forgotten only with the 
 language in which they are written. There is that weird " Lochiel ! 
 Lochiel ! beware of the day! " which no school-book of our time ought 
 to omit, and no collection should be without. It will never be an easy 
 task to banish "Gertrude of Wyoming" from the poetry of love and 
 passion; or those noble lyrics, "The Battle of the Baltic," and "Ye 
 Mariners of England," from the patriot-poetry of the world. One 
 of the most touching pieces in any language is that pathetic story in 
 verse about a parrot, which, by the force of genius, is lifted into an 
 atmosphere of the rarest beauty. 
 
 I hardly know a loftier chant than "What's hallowed ground?" 
 There are stanzas in that poem which make the blood tingle, and the 
 pulses leap along the lines. I have heard our own American Halleck 
 quote the whole of this poem from memory, and then challenge the 
 world to produce sixteen verses of grander sentiment and loftier aim. 
 And then there are " Lord Ullin's Daughter," "The Soldier's Dream," 
 "The Ode to Burns's Memory," "The Last Man," and scores of other 
 pieces which have no rivals in English verse, all attesting the genius 
 of the man who gave his first, best years to song. 
 
 Campbell lived many years in a pleasant little cottage in Sydenham, 
 not far from where the Crystal Palace now stands. He used to write 
 his poems in a small parlor at the back of the house, and then shout 
 the verses out sonorously, that he might judge how they would sound 
 in print. 
 
 Friends of mine, who often visited the poet when he lived at Syden- 
 ham, have described to me the conversational powers of Campbell as 
 exceptionally brilliant, and the recitations of his own poems as some- 
 thing to be long remembered. His wife, they said, was a singularly 
 beautiful person, full of admiration and love for her gifted husband. 
 
 It is sad to think of this bard, so favored in his youthful career, 
 dying at the age of sixty-seven (in 1844), worn out with anxiety and 
 unrest. 
 
 Domestic afflictions in various forms came heavily upon him as the 
 years went by, and the clouds gathered darkly about his setting sun ; 
 but I like to remember that the poet of Hope uttered these memorable 
 words not long before he died : — 
 
 " It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to 
 look back, and feel that I have not written one line against Religion or 
 Virtue." 
 
 I have been frequently asked by young people how the poet himself
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1 63 
 
 pronounced his own name. Let me answer the question here. One 
 day, in 1838, when he was sitting for his portrait to an American painter 
 in London, he turned to the artist, and said, — 
 
 "Why do the Americans always call me Camel? You see I have 
 no hump on my back ! " 
 
 One of the most beautiful tributes ever offered by one poet to an- 
 other is Winthrop Praed's verses in the form of a charade on Camp- 
 bell's name. It is too graceful a compliment in verse to be omitted 
 whenever Thomas Campbell is the subject of eulogy, and I have 
 special pleasure in commending it to my friends who may read this 
 article. 
 
 " Come from my first, 1 ay, come ! 
 
 The battle-dawn is nigh ; 
 And the screaming trump, and the thundering drum, 
 
 Are calling thee to die. 
 Fight as thy father fought ! 
 
 Fall as thy father fell ! 
 Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought, 
 
 So forward, and farewell ! 
 
 Toll ye my second* toll ! 
 
 Fling high the flambeau's light ! 
 And sing the hymn of a parted soul 
 
 Beneath the silent night ! 
 The wreath upon his head, 
 
 The cross upon his breast, 
 Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed, — 
 
 So take him to his rest. 
 
 Call ye my whole,* ay, call 
 
 The lord of lute and lay ! 
 And let him greet the sable pall 
 
 With a noble song to-day. 
 Go, call him by his name ! 
 
 No fitter hand may crave 
 To light the flame of a soldier's fame 
 
 On the turf of a soldier's grave." 
 
 1 Camp. 2 Bell. 3 Campbell.
 
 COLLEGE LIFE OF MACAULAY. 
 
 By E. P. WHIPPLE. 
 
 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY was probably one of the 
 most precocious of those boys whose premature intelligence 
 afflicts their fathers and mothers with the fear that they will either 
 die young, or that their early brightness of intellect will result, as the 
 years roll on, in making them pretentious intellectual fops and coxcombs, 
 particularly odious to all men of good sense, and wide experience of the 
 world. 
 
 Now, Macaulay, the most precocious of these youths, lived to the 
 age of sixty, and left behind him, as the results of his labor in life, 
 many important additions to the literature and history of Great Britain. 
 The child, in some respects, predicted the man ; but still, what the 
 man accomplished exceeded all the promise of the child. This cir- 
 cumstance leads us to consider some facts commonly overlooked by the 
 biographers of "marvellous" boys. 
 
 Lord Brougham said, in his old age, that he learned more during 
 the first four years of his life than he had ever learned since that time. 
 He meant, of course, that the child, when first introduced into this 
 world, finds itself surrounded with wonderful things, which it investi- 
 gates with insatiable curiosity, and welcomes every explanation of them 
 with a rapture of delight. 
 
 Brougham fixed the point at which the instinctive reception of 
 knowledge ceases to be accompanied by a glow of ecstasy, at the age 
 of four. After that period, familiarity with the objects which had at 
 first excited the emotions of wonder and rapture, tends to make the 
 nature of the child harden and stiffen into what we call his individu- 
 ality, as John this, or Thomas that. The age when the schoolmaster 
 
 or schoolmistress takes hold of him is just that age when he is apt to 
 
 164
 
 COLLEGE LIFE OF MA CAUL AY. 165 
 
 resist the reception of new knowledge with as much wilfulness as he 
 formerly showed eagerness in acquiring it. 
 
 A boy of six or eight or ten, even of twelve, is commonly a hard 
 creature to manage, when an attempt is made to open to him the mys- 
 teries of arithmetic, geography, and grammar. 
 
 Now, Macaulay was one of those exceptional boys who are inflamed, 
 long after the age of four or six, with the same devouring thirst for 
 information which characterizes the child on his first entrance into this 
 marvellous world. Every thing he learned acted as a powerful stimu- 
 lant, urging him to learn more. 
 
 The mere instinctive appetite for knowledge was continued in him, 
 at least to the age of fifteen ; and his acquisitions, accordingly, be- 
 tween the ages of four and fifteen, were enormous. It is hardly neces- 
 sary to refer to the fact that he was deep in books very soon after he 
 was weaned, and that he put literature upon his mind long before his 
 parents consented to allow his body to be clothed in the boyish dignity 
 of jacket and trousers. 
 
 The remarkable thing, therefore, about him is, that his child-like 
 absorption in whatever engaged his attention for the time, was ex- 
 tended so far beyond the period of childhood, that it may be said, his 
 inclinations were identical with his duties as a pupil, and that he never 
 required to be trained in the exercise of the faculty of "attention." 
 
 This training is, according to the testimony of all educators, at 
 once difficult and indispensable. If a boy will not "attend" to his 
 studies, if he cannot be seduced or compelled to concentrate his mind 
 on a subject, he must remain an ignoramus, though all the great 
 teachers of the world should combine to make him a scholar. 
 
 Macaulay was attentive without any exertion of will ; because any 
 prospect of new knowledge spread out before him so stimulated his 
 intellectual curiosity, and fascinated his imagination, that the only 
 danger was, that the rapt student would neglect the ordinary proprieties 
 of his toilet, and appear in his class as a sloven in dress. 
 
 It has been customary to lay stress on his memory as his most 
 wonderful faculty ; but his memory was so closely connected with his 
 sensibilities and imagination, that it can be hardly distinguished as a 
 particular power. He, like other people, only remembered what deeply 
 interested him; but he was interested — joyously and delightfully in- 
 terested — in hundreds of things which had little interest for other 
 people. 
 
 As a boy, he had mastered the leading facts of the histories of
 
 1 66 COLLEGE LIFE OF MA CAUL AY. 
 
 England, France, Italy, and Spain ; as a boy, he could recite, off-hand, 
 Scott's " Lay of the Last Minstrel," or the first six books of Milton's 
 " Paradise Lost," without missing a word ; but his memory, as to these 
 things, did not differ from that of another schoolmate, who could not 
 recollect a single historical date, or a line of Scott or Milton, but who 
 had a vivid remembrance of a game of foot-ball or base-ball in which 
 he had borne a triumphant part, and which he had intensely enjoyed. 
 
 Macaulay's thorough enjoyment of the facts stored in his mind 
 was the reason why they never escaped from what is called his mem- 
 ory. Like the rest of the world, he forgot thousands of facts in which 
 he had no interest, and which could not serve him morally or intellect- 
 ually ; and this power to forget what is worthless is almost as valuable 
 to the student as the power to remember what is useful. Indeed, one 
 of his most intimate acquaintances declared his belief, that, whether 
 as boy or man, he never learned any thing, or wrote any thing, which 
 it " went against his grain " to learn or write. 
 
 The boy's precocity may well have astounded his parents. His 
 taste for books was confined to no one department of literature, but 
 was universal. Any thing which was printed, his mind would devour 
 with the greediness of appetite that other boys display for green apples 
 and cherries, and for nuts, tarts, candy, and pound-cake ; and, when his 
 mind was set on fire by a book, he proceeded instantly to write some- 
 thing in emulation of it. 
 
 Hannah More was especially fascinated by what may be called this 
 baby of letters, as distinguished from the man of letters, and delighted 
 to have him at her residence in Barley Wood. She had known most 
 of the celebrities of the last half of the eighteenth century, — Garrick, 
 Johnson, Burke, Goldsmith among others ; but she probably never re- 
 ceived more delight from their conversation than she experienced in 
 listening to the unguarded, innocent, confident judgments on literature 
 poured forth by this loquacious boy, for whom she felt a half-motherly 
 fondness. 
 
 Here was "the little dumpling of a fellow" palpably before her, 
 with his big head placed on stooping shoulders, and his "whitish " com- 
 plexion occasionally reddening with his vehemence, reading ravenously, 
 talking volubly, and giving the impression that his body was all brain, 
 so quickly did his physical frame quiver and thrill with every thought 
 and feeling which passed through it. 
 
 " Tom," she wrote to his father, when Tom was about eleven, 
 "ought to have competitors. He is," she adds, "like the prince who
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF MA CAUL AY. 
 
 167 
 
 refused to play with any thing but kings." And again : "The quantity 
 of reading Tom has poured in, and the quantity of writing he has 
 poured out, is astonishing." She had the good sense to advise him, 
 
 College Life of Macautay. 
 
 when he was only six years old, to begin to form a library composed of 
 books, which, when he grew to be a scholar, would be useful and agree- 
 able to him then. And, about eighteen months afterwards, she thanked 
 him for two letters, "so neat and free from blots ; " and she tells him, 
 as a reward, to go to a prominent London bookseller, and buy, on her 
 account, some leading English classic, in prose or verse. "Then," she
 
 168 COLLEGE LLFE OF MACAULAY. 
 
 says, " I want you to become a complete Frenchman, that I may give 
 you Racine." 
 
 The great merit of Hannah More's advice to the juvenile Macaulay 
 is one which all educators of the young should take to heart. It con- 
 sists in giving or lending to a bright and generous boy or girl a book 
 which is one that he or she is incompetent to appreciate at the time, 
 but which remains as a strong stimulant, urging both boy and girl to 
 become intelligent enough to earn the right to read it. 
 
 In 1812 Macaulay's father sent him to a private school, kept by an 
 Episcopal clergyman of extreme evangelical views, by the name of 
 Preston. Sir William Maule, an eminent English judge, once declared 
 that the public schools of England made sad dogs, and the private 
 schools poor creatures. Macaulay and the other pupils of Mr. Pres- 
 ton's school disproved, in their after-life, the last half of Sir William's 
 assertion. The school was near Cambridge ; and Macaulay, at the 
 age of thirteen, made a warm friend of Dean Milner, the president of 
 Queen's College, who was also a friend of his father. The dean de- 
 lighted in the boy ; cordially welcomed him in his visits to the uni- 
 versity, lodging him in his own apartments ; and wrote to Zachary 
 Macaulay, " Your lad is a fine fellow. He shall stand before kings. 
 He shall not stand before mean men." 
 
 Among the pupils at Mr. Preston's school was the eldest son of 
 the great philanthropist, Wilberforce ; and this stripling, who after- 
 wards became one of the most eminent prelates of the English Church, 
 seems to have been one of the most provoking boys that ever vexed a 
 schoolmaster, or roused the opposition of his school-fellows. 
 
 "We have had," writes Macaulay to his father, "the first meeting 
 of our debating-society the other day, when a vote for censure was 
 moved for upon Wilberforce ; but he, getting up, said, ' Mr. President, 
 I beg to second the motion.' By this means he escaped." 
 
 Mr. Preston demanded that his pupils should not only go to church 
 on Sunday, but write out an analysis of the sermon they heard. " I 
 cannot help thinking," the boy writes to his father, "that Mr. Preston 
 uses all imaginable means to make us forget it ; for he gives us a glass 
 of wine each on Sunday, and on Sunday only, the very day when we 
 want to have all our faculties awake ; and some do literally go to sleep 
 during the sermon, and look rather silly when they awake. I, however, 
 have not fallen into this disaster." 
 
 While at this school, Macaulay not only continued his habit of wide 
 miscellaneous reading, but submitted himself, with much docility, to
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF MAC AULA Y. 169 
 
 the technical discipline by which boys in general acquire the solid 
 foundations of their after-knowledge of the languages and the mathe- 
 matics. At the same time, he began to develop that self-assertion ; 
 that positiveness amounting to dogmatism ; that confidence in his own 
 opinions, derived from his singularly vivid perceptions of the facts on 
 which they were founded, which characterized him from the moment 
 he emerged from obscurity into the full blaze of notoriety, — a notoriety 
 which was to last from the appearance of his article on Milton, in 1825, 
 to his death thirty-five years after, when his "Essays" and his "His- 
 tory " were so popular as to confer on his heirs more than the ordinary 
 income of a baron in the peerage of Britain. 
 
 His father, the most self-denying and humble, as well as, where 
 duty was concerned, the most intrepid, of men, heard that his son had 
 become distinguished in Mr. Preston's school for the unseemly loud- 
 ness of voice with which he propounded questionable propositions, and 
 for the audacity with which he defended them by unsound arguments ; 
 and he wrote sharply to the lad, advising him to put on the ornament 
 of a meek and quiet spirit, and to avoid every appearance of a presump- 
 tuous and a contentious one. 
 
 The boy of fourteen winced under these reproofs ; but he still felt 
 that his father did not appreciate the advances he was constantly mak- 
 ing in various departments of learning, or understand the reason of the 
 vehemence which impelled him to correct misinformation in matters 
 of fact, and expose fallacies in matters of argument, though the persons 
 who made the false statements, and indulged in the bad reasoning, 
 happened to be his elders. 
 
 Indeed, that immense intellectual curiosity and receptiveness, which, 
 in his special case, had been prolonged far beyond the period when a 
 decided and somewhat resisting individuality ordinarily appears in a 
 vigorous boy, was now being subordinated to the growth of what proved 
 to be one of the strongest, most independent, and most fearless indi- 
 vidual characters that appeared, either in the literature or politics of 
 his time. 
 
 When, at the age of eighteen, he entered Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, his friends at the university were such students as Derwent 
 and Henry N. Coleridge, Praed, Charles Villiers, Charles Austin, and 
 the eldest sons of Earl Gray and Sir John Romilly, — all of whom 
 fulfilled, as men, the promises of their youth. With the minds of these 
 companions, his own intellect was brought into incessant friendly con- 
 tact or collision. The conflict between the minds of these bright
 
 170 COLLEGE LIFE OF MA CAUL AY. 
 
 young fellows was specially exhibited in the debates of the Cambridge 
 Union, the greatest, perhaps, of all college debating-societies. 
 
 The most formidable opponent that Macaulay met in those days 
 was Charles Austin, the ablest student in the university, and whose 
 fees afterwards, as a leading advocate, were said to amount to a hun- 
 dred and fifty thousand dollars a year for several years. Austin cured 
 Macaulay of the mild forra of Toryism in which he had been brought up, 
 and made him almost a Radical. The contests between them were as 
 fierce as those between two youthful wrestlers, each eager to throw the 
 other, and each gaining new strength by every effort at victory over 
 the other. But it was not only with pen that Macaulay disputed. At 
 every hour of the day or night he was ready for conversation with any 
 fellow-collegian who preferred talking to lounging or sleeping ; and as 
 long "as a door was open, or a light burning in any of the courts," 
 there was Macaulay, eager to begin or renew a discussion with the 
 solitary student, who had not gone, like his fellows, ignominiously 
 to bed. 
 
 Meanwhile his obedience to college laws and discipline, and his 
 attendance at lectures and chapel, were so exemplary, that he was 
 never once "disciplined." 
 
 The political enthusiasm of Macaulay manifested itself early in his 
 university career. On one occasion, of a parliamentary election in 
 Cambridge, he almost dragged his companion to the scene of action, 
 where an infuriated body of non-electors were mobbing the successful 
 candidates. Macaulay intensely enjoyed the popular riot until a dead 
 cat suddenly hit him square in the face. The person who threw it 
 came up to him at once, apologized, said he had no prejudice against 
 him because he had on the student's gown, and assured him that the 
 cat had been intended for Mr. Adeane, one of the candidates elected. 
 "I wish," Macaulay ruefully replied, "that you had meant it forme, 
 and hit Mr. Adeane." 
 
 It is said, that, long after Macaulay and Charles Austin had left 
 the university, and were in the fulness of their fame, they met as 
 guests at Bowood, the country-house of the Marquis of Lansdowne. 
 One morning, at breakfast, they referred to some experiences in their 
 college career ; and, as soon as breakfast was over, they continued 
 their conversation over the hearth-rug, as they faced each other at 
 each end of the chimney-piece. 
 
 One topic suggested another, and they went on recalling the whole 
 delightful scenes of their university contests. The lords, ladies, artists,
 
 COLLEGE LIFE OF MACAULAY. 171 
 
 politicians, men of letters, men of the world, who composed the "select 
 party " assembled at Bowood, gathered in a semicircle around the two 
 renowned talkers, and listened without saying a word. The stream of 
 conversation flowed on until dinner-time, with only a short break in it 
 for luncheon. 
 
 It is a pity, that, during the eight or ten hours thus consumed in 
 college reminiscences, no reporter was present among the many de- 
 lighted auditors. A record of such a conversation would have given 
 a life-like view of the circumstances, which, during his residence at 
 Cambridge, stimulated the faculties of Macaulay, brought out all the 
 acquisitions he had stored in his wonderful memory, and strengthened 
 his character by compelling him to struggle with other forcible indi- 
 viduals, as well as to question the statements they made, or answer the 
 arguments they propounded. 
 
 As his literary style was, perhaps, the chief cause of his extraor- 
 dinary popularity, it may be well, in addressing students, to make an 
 attempt here to account for it. First, it may be said that his knowl- 
 edge, wide as it was, was very exactly arranged in his mind. It did 
 not possess him, but he possessed it. The consequence was, that it 
 did not lie in his mind in that state of slovenly confusion which char- 
 acterizes the acquirements of those other youthful students who have 
 an exceptional power of taking in great masses of information, but no 
 corresponding faculty to dispose of, and, as it were, to pigeon-hole, it. 
 
 Then, the youth loved his younger brothers and sisters with the 
 most intense affection, and was naturally desirous to tell them all the 
 surprising facts which had delighted him as they were acquired by his 
 diligence. To make them understand what was beyond their capacity 
 to apprehend in the books where they were recorded, he was compelled 
 to employ the simplest words, and make his exposition clear, pointed, 
 and agreeable. 
 
 In his vacations he would talk to them, day after day, never satis- 
 fied until he had succeeded in lodging in their minds the facts and 
 principles which filled and animated his own. 
 
 In his struggles in debate with his fellow-students of Cambridge 
 University, he found that clearness of statement and argument was 
 the first requisite demanded of him who aspired to carry the votes of 
 any assembly of young men. 
 
 He formed his notion of the condition of mind of the great public 
 he aspired to instruct and control by the confusion of thought he de- 
 tected in his brothers and sisters, and in the young men he mentally
 
 172 COLLEGE LLFE OF MA CAUL AY. 
 
 wrestled with in college. Accordingly, he wrote his review-articles 
 and his great " History " on the principle that few readers understood 
 any thing accurately ; that they would be grateful to the man who 
 took it for granted that they were ignorant, — a man who bent all his 
 powers to the task of making simple what to them seemed obscure, of 
 lucidly explaining what they imperfectly apprehended, and of recom- 
 mending his explanation by every rhetorical contrivance of wit, anec- 
 dote, learned allusion, and picturesque description. 
 
 Still, it is also to be remembered, that he not only formed his style 
 during his long residence at the university, but he had, at the age of 
 twenty-three or twenty-four, adopted the general political ideas which 
 regulated his future life. In 1812 he wrote a college-essay on the 
 "Conduct and Character of William the Third," the leading opinions 
 of which are almost identical with those he advanced in his " History ; " 
 and, in many cases, the same similarity is observable in the style of 
 expressing them. 
 
 Indeed, if we look at Macaulay's school and college career as a 
 whole, we shall find abundant reasons why, so soon after leaving Cam- 
 bridge, he should so rapidly have risen to literary and political 
 eminence.
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 By JAMES PARTON. 
 
 THE time was, when I would gladly have walked from New York 
 to Albany to see Thomas Carlyle pass by. I would not have 
 stipulated for a word with him. What should I, a green, ignorant 
 youth, presume to say to such a man ? No : to see him pass, and bow 
 in homage to him, and watch him till he had gone out of sight, had 
 been enough for me in those days of the Carlyle enthusiasm. 
 
 A peculiar experience had prepared me to understand and to wel- 
 come this great poet, now asleep with his kindred in old Scotland. 
 At the age of twenty years, I went to England, and spent a year in 
 that country. It was during one of those periods of commercial revul- 
 sion, to which profuse and extravagant people like the English, who 
 live up to the income of prosperous years, must be forever liable. 
 Never before had I seen destitution, except as resulting from intem- 
 perance or sudden calamity ; and even that had been speedily relieved, 
 so far as my knowledge of it went. But now I saw thousands of vir- 
 tuous and stalwart laborers standing idle along the roadsides, their 
 families pallid from want, or living as paupers in huge poorhouses, 
 called Unions. 
 
 It was particularly in the agricultural counties that the distress was 
 most general and most hopeless. The spectacle was so agonizing to 
 one who had passed his youth in a land of abundance, and I was 
 brought so near to it by living for several weeks at a farmhouse in one 
 of the most fertile counties of England, that I was often quite over- 
 whelmed, and almost driven mad, by it. What made the spectacle 
 the more heart-rending was the excellent character of the sufferers, — 
 kind, good people, dignified and patient, sprung from virtuous ances- 
 tors, abundantly capable of enjoying and making the most of a lowly 
 lot, provided it had furnished them with the means of subsistence. 
 
 173
 
 174 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 I asked every one, " What is the matter ? Why is this ? " The 
 farmers said, " The price of our produce is so low that we cannot 
 afford to employ labor as usual." The squire of the parish had abated 
 a part of the rents, and had caused twelve hundred days' work to be 
 done in his park that winter, merely that he might give away twelve 
 hundred shillings under the guise of wages. There was no lack of char- 
 ity ; and all agreed that the land would abundantly support the whole 
 population, if the people and the land could only be rightly related. 
 
 There was the land needing the labor : there were the laborers 
 needing the land, and most willing to work upon it. And yet, upon 
 both a kind of enchantment seemed to rest. The fields were undrained 
 and unploughed : the laborer stood in the highway, gaunt, hungry, and 
 hopeless. 
 
 Here was a problem indeed for a raw lad just out of school, and as 
 ignorant of the world as a baby. I have never been in my life so dis- 
 tressed and so puzzled as I was then. Being in London some weeks 
 after, I saw an advertisement in the "Times," under the head of new 
 publications, to this effect : — 
 
 " This day. Past and Present. By Thomas Carlyle. i vol. 8vo. Price, 
 10s. 6d. Chapman and Hall, Strand." 
 
 I had casually heard of this Thomas Carlyle as of a wise and un- 
 known man ; and, in consequence of this vague impression, I made my 
 way, in the course of the morning, to the small and dingy bookstore of 
 Chapman & Hall, paid my ten and sixpence, and brought away the 
 book. Sympathetic readers can imagine my feelings when I read, that 
 evening, the opening page of this unique production : — 
 
 '• The condition of England is justly regarded as one of the strangest ever seen 
 in this world. England is full of wealth, of multifarious produce, supply for human 
 want in even kind: yet England is dying of inanition. With unabated bounty the 
 land of England blooms and grows, — waving with yellow harvests; thick-studded 
 with workshops, industrial implements, with millions of workers, understood to be 
 the strongest, the cunningest, and the willingest our earth ever had. These men are 
 here : the work they have done, the fruit they have realized, is here, abundant, ex- 
 uberant on every hand of us ; and, behold ! some baleful fiat as of enchantment has 
 gone forth, saying, ' Touch it not, ye workers, ye master-workers, ye master-idlers. 
 .None of you can touch it, no man of you shall be the better for it: this is enchanted 
 fruit."' 
 
 These words riveted my attention, for they gave expression to what 
 I had been brooding over for months. The whole book was but an
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. 1 75 
 
 expansion of this first page. It was a cry of horror, wrung from the 
 author by the sight of so much misery in the midst of abundance. 
 No country had ever been so rich as England was then ; and no coun- 
 try perhaps, in time of peace, had ever contained such an amount of 
 woe and despair. 
 
 It was objected that Carlyle suggested no remedies. This was not 
 true ; but, if it had been true, such a heart-rending shriek, calling the 
 attention of every thoughtful person to the state of things, was itself 
 the beginning of remedy ; as a woman, coming upon the deck of a 
 ship at midnight, finding the watch asleep, and the vessel running 
 among the breakers, utters one cry of alarm, which wakes the crew, 
 and saves the vessel. From that time to this, the educated class of 
 Englishmen have never been quite so insensible to the anguish of the 
 poor, never quite so disposed to venerate mere material success, as 
 they were before. 
 
 Much that Carlyle afterward wrote was little in harmony with the 
 humane and liberal spirit of this work. I think he gradually lost his 
 humility, lost faith in man, lost hope and cheerfulness, lost a part of 
 his sincerity. He secluded himself too much from human society. 
 He undertook long, painful, and unsuitable tasks. He wore himself 
 out in giving a careful distillation of the court-gossip of Prussia, and 
 displayed real genius in delineating some portions of the life of Frede- 
 rick the Great. Nevertheless, all deductions made, there is worth and 
 truth in the writings of this man, which will make them of value, per- 
 haps, to unborn generations. We give a few samples of his epigram- 
 matic wisdom : — 
 
 " The latest Gospel in this world is, Know thy work, and do it." 
 " Wheresoever thou findest Disorder, there is thy eternal enemy. Attack him 
 swiftly, subdue him ; make Order of him, the subject not of chaos, but of intelli- 
 gence, divinity, and thee." 
 
 " The thistle that grows in thy path, dig it out, that a blade of useful grass, a 
 drop of nourishing milk, may grow there instead." 
 
 A hundred sentences like these could be selected from the works 
 of this modern Jeremiah. Even when he seems perverse and preju- 
 diced, if we closely examine the passage, we shall often find that there 
 is a certain degree of truth in it, after all. He speaks, for example, 
 with unmeasured contempt of the institutions of the United States. 
 Believing that nearly all men are fools, it was quite natural for him to 
 suppose that government founded upon the rule of the majority, or 
 the consent of the governed, must be a very bad government. He
 
 176 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 compares government to a ship trying to get round Cape Horn in a 
 stormy time ; and he says, very truly, that it would be impossible to 
 navigate the ship successfully, if the captain were obliged, every time 
 he wished to tack, to call a town-meeting of the crew, and take a vote 
 whether to tack or not. 
 
 The illustration is irrelevant and absurd. It was never proposed, 
 since the world stood, to navigate a ship, or conduct a newspaper, or 
 direct an administration, on the principle of taking a vote upon every 
 detail. Nevertheless, the numerous passages in Carlyle's works of 
 this nature are not altogether destitute of sense. His name for a dull, 
 rich man is Bobus ; and he asks, what kind of man Bobus is likely to 
 vote for, if not some Bobissimus, or some man who is more of a Bobus 
 than Bobus himself. This is only a Carlylean way of saying, that a 
 people, foolish and corrupt, will be likely to elect foolish and corrupt 
 rulers. 
 
 In conversation with Americans, he delighted to make boisterous 
 fun of our way of electing presidents by universal suffrage. He bore 
 down all opposition with his strong Scottish voice, and gave no heed 
 to any thing said in opposition to him. Incontrovertible facts refute 
 him. We have elected twenty presidents, nearly all of whom were 
 worthy and capable gentlemen, and some of them were of distinguished 
 ability and merit. Take the whole twenty, with all their limits and 
 shortcomings, we can claim that they are superior to any line or dynasty 
 of kings of which history makes mention, whether it be called Tudor, 
 Plantagenet, Stuart, Guelph, Bourbon, Valois, or Hohenzollern. 
 
 Compare our twenty presidents with any twenty successive kings ! 
 
 In the " Reminiscences " of Thomas Carlyle, his antipathy to the 
 United States breaks out with violence. He appears in them as a 
 kind of Scotch Dr. Johnson, — a monster of blind and ignorant preju- 
 dice ; and it is a curious coincidence, that both of them cherished a 
 contempt for their brethren on this side of the Atlantic. And well 
 they might ; for, if America is right, Johnson and Carlyle are wrong. 
 
 In speaking of an American lady, he described her as the sister of 
 Commodore Wilkes, " who boarded the ' Trent ' some years ago, and 
 almost involved us in war with Yankee-land, during that beautiful 
 nigger agony, or civil war of theirs." To this sweet passage, the 
 editor of the work, Mr. J. A. Froude, is good enough to append the 
 following note : — 
 
 " Some years after these words were written, Carlyle read ' The Harvard Memo- 
 rial Biographies.' He was greatly impressed by the account of the gallant young
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. 177 
 
 men whose lives are there described, and said to me, ' Perhaps there was more in 
 that matter, after all, than I was aware of.' " 
 
 If the publication of that note should induce a considerable num- 
 ber of persons to read those memorial volumes, the poison of Carlyle's 
 contemptuous perversion will be more than neutralized.
 
 TEA WITH CARLYLE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 I WAS in England in 1875, an d could not make up my mind to leave 
 the country without seeing Carlyle. Every thing in the way of 
 sight-seeing, subjectively and objectively, had been thoroughly attended 
 to, from London Bridge to John o' Groat's House, and Carlyle alone 
 was left out. There were people on this side of the ocean whose next 
 question, after saying, " How are you ? " would be, — 
 
 " Did you see him ? " 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 "Carlyle." 
 
 Happily it was within my introductory limits ; for had I not car- 
 ried all over Europe in my breast-pocket, next my heart, a letter from 
 a very near relative of his, and a dear friend of mine ? There was to 
 be no tourist's invasion of a lion's den, but only something which the 
 laws of etiquette might permit. 
 
 And yet, why had I been so free in passing current all other marks 
 of similar formalities, and nearly embarked for home without paying 
 note to this, all the time, too, cherishing it so closely ? 
 
 Coward ! Could it be that I stood in fear of a mortal man ? 
 
 I went down to Chelsea. Happily it was a gentle sort of evening, 
 — an evening to make the roughest philosopher calm and yielding to 
 mortal surroundings. It was not bright, — one could hardly expect that 
 of England ; but there was no fog, and the air was balmy. 
 
 I strolled down Carlyle's street, and touched his bell with some- 
 thing of the feeling as if I were knocking at the door of an old Scrip- 
 tural prophet, — at the door of Malachi, of Joel, of Hosea, or of Ezekiel. 
 
 Tea ! The odor of it blew in my face as a meek-mannered servant 
 opened the door. She looked at me, bowed her head at my inquiry, 
 
 and looked then at a door-mat. 
 
 178
 
 TEA WITH CARLYLE. 1 79 
 
 Ah, yes ! Wipe your feet. I did so. She then bowed again, and 
 opened a door on the right, or left, I can't exactly say which, but am 
 quite sure it was one or the other. I entered, and remained for a 
 while alone. There were books knee-deep, papers, pipes, pamphlets, 
 and a very strong smell of tobacco. When it ceased to be tobacco, it 
 became tea. When not tea, tobacco again. 
 
 But, hark ! A door swung open, and Carlyle the Great enters. A 
 sort of shuffle, a mutter, as if in response to some one in the rear, and 
 I stand in the breathing presence of the Illustrious Critic ; Master of 
 Irony ; Minister Pen-ipotentiary of Human Events ! Chronicler and 
 Dissecter ! Distendiary of Mortality Degenerately and Generally. 
 
 I think I spoke first. But it matters not what I said. What did 
 he say, and how did he say it ? 
 
 In response to my introduction, he replied in one word, "America f" 
 
 The tone and style of saying it was exactly as if it were pronounced, 
 A merry cur? I confess I, for the first time, was made sensible of this 
 rendering of America, and its capacity for being made game of. For 
 the moment, I wished that I belonged to any thing but a nation that 
 could be so curtly interpreted. 
 
 Again he replied, "A merry cur?" which made me feel as if the 
 new style of intonation meant to say, a murrain on you. But, no : 
 I was not repulsed. The apparent gruffness seemed to smooth itself 
 down as he glanced through and through me. 
 
 It was, after all, not so much to please myself that I went to see 
 him. It was for others who admired him across the seas ; and he 
 seemed to catch at a ray of kindliness in my intention, and said 
 softly, — 
 
 "Sit dooon." 
 
 And dooon I sat. 
 
 A gleam of human charity twinkled in his eye, a bit of large- 
 hearted pleasantry lighted up his mobile mouth, as I timidly suggested, 
 Bore? I, at least, would myself save him the trouble of saying it first, 
 and claim only a generous acquiescence on his part. 
 
 "Booore?" he languidly drawled out. "Nat so baaad as thaat, 
 though I've seen soome of youure booores. There was a maan naamed 
 — naamed — Well, well, thaat I should foorget a booore's naame ! 
 I'll remember it yet. He was a booore not to be foorgotten. He was 
 the ' Prince of Amurrycaan booores ! ' " 
 
 I now turned the stream of talk growing so painful to myself, as 
 best I could, and succeeded. Shortly after, Mrs. Carlyle made her
 
 180 TEA WITH CARLYLE. 
 
 appearance. Tea was announced, the lamps sent up a cheery light, 
 and we were seated about the tea-table. 
 
 To take tea with T. Carlyle was literally to take tea. It was the 
 primum et solum mobile of the table. It was tea et prcetcrca nihil. It 
 was discussed tea. Its flavor was dwelt upon. Its bouquet analyzed. 
 It was a solemn libation, as if offered to the gods. 
 
 No questions were idly put of what you took with it. It was 
 poured black from the urn, and a separate miniature sugar-basin and 
 cream-jug was at the option of every plate. It would seem to be 
 almost profanation to assume that viands were mingled with such 
 celestial drink — and they were not. 
 
 For the benefit of the too curious, let me say there was besides on 
 the simple table, bread, — very thinly sliced, — thin as a wafer, and 
 spread with butter. There was also a huge loaf, with a sharp-looking 
 knife beside it, for those who preferred an independent cutting. 
 
 Then there was jam of some sort, — a very infinitesimal quantity 
 on a rather large silver plate. 
 
 Then there was — and herein, Carlyle, have you been libelled. It 
 has been told in Gath, that he took plum-cake with tea. Americans 
 have declared him to be a plum-cake eater, — perhaps the greedy boy, 
 grown to manhood, whom tradition tells us ate in secret his plum-cake. 
 What we Americans call plum-cake is a solid, slab-sided, dark com- 
 pound ; every pore filled with fatty plums ; mucilaginous, heteroge- 
 neous ; an amalgamate product of wheat-flour, eggs, spice, butter, gritty 
 with raisins. 
 
 There was no raison d'etre for any such mixture in Carlyle's culi- 
 nary vocabulary. The cake that he ate was nothing less than bun, 
 though something more than the American bun. It was white, almost 
 foamy-looking, like a heap of cotton-wool, or an embrowned cloud 
 served on a china dish. It was light as air, compared to the ordinary 
 plum-cake. 
 
 This light, cool, well-ripened bun-food, dotted here and there with 
 a currant, was the sort of plum-cake that Carlyle dipped in his tea. 
 
 It was a pleasure to see him eat this cake with his tea. It would 
 naturally seem to be the least interesting thing to see a great man do, 
 — to eat. But it was not eating. It was nothing that gave suggestion 
 or hint of appetite. It was certainly most peculiar. 
 
 At times, Carlyle, whose cup was a cup of honor, being of a larger 
 size, of a different color and pattern, than any of the others, would 
 lift it to his mouth as if to sip, but take no taste. # He would hold it
 
 TEA WITH CARLYLE. 
 
 181 
 
 there as if he alone had a faculty of imbibing the liquid without 
 resort to the vesicular action of any ordinary methods. Again, he 
 would put the cup to his lips, but only by sips did the six or seven cups 
 of tea become finished. 
 
 The conversation flowed in a regular channel of tea. The refresh- 
 ment of it was discussed, the qualities of it, the manner of using it. 
 
 I should say that Carlyle took it 
 in every manner that evening, — with 
 cream, without ; with sugar, with- 
 out, — as if constantly experimenting 
 with it. 
 
 Madam made some pretty, playful 
 allusions about his fashion of taking 
 it, and said that Dash, who often took 
 tea with them, said it was his chief 
 entertainment to see her husband's 
 
 lea with Carlyle. 
 
 sippings ; at which point I lightly added, " Dulce est te-sipere in loco ; " 
 and Carlyle's head went back a little, and he smiled, and uttered an 
 audible ah ! ah ! in fashion peculiar to himself. 
 
 And the bun-food ? How was it ? Did Carlyle eat it ? I think I 
 hear a voice inquiring. Hardly what would be called, in the vulgate, 
 eating. He dallied with it, as one might pick a rose to pieces. For
 
 1 82 TEA WITH CARLYLE. 
 
 instance, he placed the bun in the hollow of his hand : then he placed 
 it in the other hand, and looked at it, as if it were some dainty thing 
 picked up by chance, curiously. 
 
 Then he lifted it lightly in the palm of his hand, as if weighing it. 
 Then it was torn open, and was placed outside his plate, the edges 
 resting on the edge of the plate. Another and another were taken, 
 repeating the same process until his plate was set in a semicircle of 
 buns. At intervals a few flaky crumbs passed his lips, and once a 
 piece was dropped into his teacup. It floated on the surface ; and the 
 philosopher watched it, while he talked, as it dissolved into the infini- 
 tesimals. 
 
 You will think, perhaps, that these are rather small crumbs to 
 gather at a great man's table ; but crumbs are of interest to those who 
 adore their heroes. 
 
 I have forborne to repeat the conversation that passed during this 
 crumb repast, because no topics of any importance were touched upon. 
 I could plainly see that he desired it should be so ; and, in Mrs. Car- 
 lyle's bonhomie, I discerned rather a desire to avoid any talk but that 
 of a passing, easy, light character. 
 
 There was very little serving at the table of any sort. As the cups 
 disappeared, the maid renewed the tea. Mrs. Carlyle's chief duty 
 seemed to be that there should be no drought in the tea-urn. In short, 
 it was an amusement, a piece de theatre, to see the tea-performance, 
 and one which I always revert to in my imagination with a smile and 
 a feeling of pleasure. 
 
 But, when we left the table, Carlyle's pile of buns was but slightly 
 reduced. I trust that the beggars at Carlyle's gate benefited by this 
 abundance. And I hope that I shall hear no more that Carlyle ate 
 plum-cake, when he only tore plum-buns to pieces.
 
 CARLYLE: HIS WORK AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 THERE is a story about a walk that Thomas Carlyle took once 
 with a young friend. It was a night full of stars, — one of those 
 wide, luminous nights that seem to open into heaven. The solemnity 
 of the scene penetrated the great, sad soul of Carlyle, and he grew 
 more and more silent. At last he stood upon his own door-step, 
 stopped to say good-night, and then turned round again, with, — 
 
 " If you have any thing to do, do it ! " 
 
 This was the gospel of Carlyle's life, — too much his gospel, as we 
 shall see hereafter, but a lesson which cannot be too often repeated to 
 most of us. 
 
 In later life Carlyle was difficult of access, and few new-comers 
 were admitted to his presence. An exception was made, however, in 
 favor of one of the sincerest of his worshippers, — a young Eng- 
 lishman. This young man had grown up with Carlyle for his prophet. 
 He had learned from Carlyle to live nobly, — to hate shams, to despise 
 snobbishness, to honor purity and self-control. He fain would thank 
 his great master before the end of that long life came. 
 
 He wrote a letter which I would give something to see. I can 
 fancy how a whole, honest, grateful heart overflowed in it. It touched 
 Carlyle, who had been getting deaf, of late, to voices from the outside 
 world; and he wrote, "Come." 
 
 At the appointed day and hour, my young friend presented himself. 
 He was shown in. A table was covered with loose leaves of manu- 
 script ; and, among other papers scattered on the floor, the old sage 
 was groping. 
 
 His tall figure was bent : his face, framed in a wiry gray beard, was 
 thin and rugged. He had on a black-velvet skull-cap, and his eyes 
 looked out from under his cavernous brows with a fierce brightness 
 
 1S3
 
 1 84 CARLYLE: HIS WORK AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 undimmed by time. He did not rise when my friend entered, but 
 pursued his search. 
 
 "See if you can find '43,' will you?" was his salutation. Down on 
 his knees before his hero went the young man, — it was what he would 
 have longed to do in any case, — and soon he had found "43." Carlyle 
 triumphantly restored it to its place among the loose leaves on the 
 table, and then began one of those memorable conversations which 
 can never be forgotten. 
 
 This young visitor to Carlyle was one of the moving spirits of a 
 club in London which is called the Carlyle Club. The yearly member- 
 ship of this club is only two dollars and a half, — just enough to supply 
 lights, fire, and a convenient place of meeting. Some twenty or more 
 very earnest young men belong to it, and they all consider Carlyle their 
 master and guide in the pursuit of truth. 
 
 Their first meeting after his death was like the coming together of 
 children to mourn for a father. I doubt if Carlyle was so sincerely 
 lamented anywhere as by these earnest young souls, who had turned 
 from the temptations of the world, to try to follow in the path of toil 
 and struggle to which their master beckoned them. I wonder if they 
 would have loved the old man so fondly if they had lived with him, 
 day by day, in that house at Chelsea. 
 
 For Carlyle was a hard man. He came of hard stock. He was so 
 accustomed to put his work before his own pleasure, that he thought 
 it ought to come also before the pleasure of any one else. 
 
 I hardly know, in all literature, a more pathetic book than the vol- 
 ume of " Reminiscences," published since the old man's death. They 
 begin with his memories of that strong old Scotchman, James Carlyle, 
 his father. Thomas was the eldest child of his parents, having been 
 born in 1795. His family designed him for a minister of the Church 
 of Scotland, and sent him to Edinburgh to pursue his theological 
 studies. 
 
 He found theology unsuited to his taste, but it was not without a 
 terrible struggle that he renounced the profession chosen for him by 
 his parents. He passed three days in his closet, scarcely eating or 
 drinking. When he came forth from it, he had found out what he had 
 to do ; and, from that time, he began to "do it." But he did it at too 
 great cost, both to himself and to others. 
 
 At thirty-one he married Jane Welch, the beloved wife whose 
 memory is embalmed in the most touching portion of the " Reminis- 
 cences." She was twenty-five then, — a beautiful creature, full of
 
 CARLYLE: HIS WORK AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 I8 5 
 
 spirit and brightness, and with a strong tincture of innocent, girlish 
 
 coquetry in her nature. 
 
 From the first, she seems to have believed in Carlyle, — to have 
 
 adored his genius, and felt a 
 sublime certainty of his future 
 success. Two years after they 
 were married, he took her to 
 live in Craigenputtoch, fifteen 
 miles from any town, in the 
 wildest part of Dumfriesshire ; 
 
 and here they re- 
 mained until 1834. 
 What those six 
 years of Craigenput- 
 toch must have been 
 to this bright, sweet- 
 natured woman, we can 
 dimly divine as we read the 
 brief story of her life which 
 Carlyle gives us. She was al- 
 ways cheerful, he says. Ah, 
 but that was when his eyes 
 were on her 
 
 hours in which he was buried 
 in his work, and she was 
 
 ■5«?~WSSf$. 
 
 keeping interruption away 
 from him, more carefully 
 than a mother does from her 
 sleeping baby, — what of those hours ? Miss Jewsbury says of them, — 
 
 " It was a much greater trial than it sounds at first ; for Mr. Carlyle was engrossed 
 in his work, and had to give himself up to it entirely. It was his life that his work
 
 1 86 CARLYLE: HIS WORK AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 required ; and she gave her life, too, which alone made such life possible for him. 
 Hers was no holiday task of pleasant companionship. She had to live beside him 
 in silence, that the people in the world might profit by his full strength, and receive 
 his message." 
 
 But the solitary confinement told on her health, only he did not 
 know it. During those six years, he wrote his noble essays on German 
 literature which have affected all subsequent criticism. The essay on 
 " Burns," which is worth all that every one else has ever said about 
 Burns put together, belongs to this period, as also does " Sartor 
 Resartus." 
 
 In 1834 he removed to that part of London called Chelsea; and 
 there he lived, henceforth, until he died. At one time he got the idea 
 that his Chelsea house was too noisy. He mounted a superb black 
 horse, — the gift of a friend, — and with three maps of Great Britain, 
 and two maps of the world, in his pockets, he sallied forth to explore 
 the surrounding country in search of a new home. 
 
 After a week of exploration, he came back, and had the walls of 
 his study padded to make them proof against noise. He had resolved 
 to live and die in Chelsea. 
 
 In this house, much the same strange life went on as among the 
 moors of Scotland. More people came and went, to be sure ; but 
 still, for most of the time, it was Carlyle forgetting every thing in his 
 work, and his wife forgetting every thing else, herself included, for 
 his sake. Just a few months before her death, she went away without 
 him in pursuit of health ; and he staid behind, working. No wonder 
 he cried out so passionately, after she was gone, — 
 
 "Ah me! she never knew fully, nor could I show her, in my heavy-laden, mis- 
 erable life, how much I had at all times regarded, loved, and admired her. No telling 
 of her now. Five minutes more of your dear company in this world. Oh that I 
 had you yet, for but five minutes, to tell you all ! This is often my thought since 
 April 21." 
 
 She died in 1866; and he buried her in remote Dumfriesshire, 
 where he lies now, at last, beside her. On her part of their common 
 tombstone he had inscribed, — 
 
 " For forty years she unweariedly forwarded her husband, as none other could, in 
 all of worthy that he did or attempted." 
 
 No wonder that the world seemed to him "no better than an empty 
 dog-kennel " when she had gone out of it. By some strange fatality, 
 she died, at last, in the brougham he so bitterly reproached himself for 
 having delayed too long to provide for her.
 
 CARLYLE: HIS WORK AND HIS WIFE. 187 
 
 Driving alone in the park, another brougham upset her little dog, 
 which lay on its back, and screamed. Feeble as she was, she pulled 
 the check-string, and got out to set the little creature right, and took 
 it into the carriage with her. When the carriage-door was opened, 
 half an hour afterwards, she had died there, as for so much of her life 
 she had lived, — quietly, uncomplainingly, and alone. 
 
 Year by year, since then, the old man went to stand alone by his 
 darling's distant grave. On his last visit his faithful niece went with 
 him, but she staid outside the gates ; and the sexton said, that, when 
 the bent old man came out, he tottered so he feared that he might fall. 
 In 1 88 1 he went for the last time, — borne silently to lie down beside 
 her in the silence.
 
 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 By RICHARD LESCLIDE, 
 
 HIS SECRETARY. 
 I. 
 
 FOR many years Victor Hugo has been in the habit of spending 
 his summers at his house on the Island of Guernsey. But in 
 1882 he remained in Paris, contenting himself with occasional trips 
 into the suburbs. 
 
 He did not give up the journey because he felt too old to travel, 
 although he is now over eighty ; for still, in pleasant and in stormy 
 weather, he takes vigorous outdoor exercise every day. It is a very 
 easy journey from his house in Paris to the flowery island where he 
 has his summer home. But, with the Hugo household, a voyage to 
 Guernsey is no small affair. For, when the author of " Les Chati- 
 ments " visits the rocks and cliffs to which his poem is so closely 
 allied, he takes with him his daughter, his grandchildren, his intimate 
 friends, and his servants. 
 
 There were several reasons why the usual trip was abandoned that 
 year. For one thing, the poet's latest work, " Torquemada," which 
 was published only in May, created an extraordinary sensation ; and, 
 for some time, Victor Hugo's salon was turned into an arena, where 
 the philosophy of the work was passionately discussed. And then, he 
 seldom travels without his manuscripts. They constitute one of the 
 greatest interests of his life ; and almost every day he looks them over, 
 and works on them. They are enclosed in an iron case, which is fire- 
 proof, and is set into the wall beside his bed, within reach of his hand. 
 They have seldom left their place of security, — indeed, only when 
 the ministry of May 16 caused the Republic to fear a new coup d'etat, 
 and during the journeys to Hauteville House. 
 188
 
 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 189 
 
 The poet's existence seems almost to depend on that of his unpub- 
 lished works, which were written, for the most part, while he was in 
 exile. I have travelled with these precious manuscripts, over which 
 we watched with a solicitude almost equal to that which inspires the 
 
 poet. And Guernsey then received 
 them like eaglets, born in her tree- 
 tops, which were 
 now returning to 
 their early home. 
 We made one 
 voyage in the sum- 
 mer of 1878. Our 
 
 party, after pass- 
 ing Jersey, saw 
 the rocky hills 
 of Guernsey ris- 
 ing gently from the sea, dis- 
 playing their caverns, their 
 peaks, and their fresh verdure. 
 We passed Fort George, which 
 is built on the point of the 
 island looking towards France. 
 
 The fields lay spread out like an amphitheatre before our eyes, and 
 then we entered the port of St. Pierre. Near the landing is Haute- 
 ville House, the home of Victor Hugo. 
 
 Within a little court, where two stunted trees are standing like 
 stern sentinels, rises the plain, two-story front of the building. As-
 
 190 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 cending a few steps, we reach the vestibule, from which a hall runs 
 through the house, and opens at the other end on a garden, full of 
 luxuriant plants and trees, and overlooking the sea. The house is one 
 of his poems ; and his desires and fancies have dictated the decora- 
 tions, which, although they belong to no particular school or period, 
 blend in a marvellous harmony. 
 
 Hauteville House is one of the strangest dwellings in the world. 
 A house of plain, comfortable appearance on the street side, it spreads 
 out toward the sea in galleries full of the rarest curiosities. Genius 
 has left its marks here, even in the details of the decorations ; and the 
 result is a truly fairy-like scene. As soon as the door closes behind 
 us, the entrance-hall of Hauteville House — the walls of which are 
 enriched with oaken wainscotings, and small oval windows — is filled 
 with dim, subdued light. The eye falls upon porcelains from Japan 
 and China, Sevres and Saxony. 
 
 Passing through this hall, we come to the cheerful dining-room, 
 where the poet's friends gather twice a day ; and the amusing plaques, 
 in old faience, with which the walls are hung, are often the subjects 
 of the daily conversation. But the sombreness of the house is not 
 dissipated by these bright ornaments. On the walls may be seen the 
 poet's initial, H., in relief ; frescoed mottoes in Gothic letters ; and 
 ancient paintings, rising to the very cornices and the carved beams of 
 the ceiling. Antique chairs of carved wood are placed about the room, 
 and one — an old arm-chair which is an heirloom in the family — is 
 surrounded by an iron chain. 
 
 Large English windows give a view of the depths of the garden, 
 where are growing aloes, the eucalyptus, a gigantic laurel, and a thou- 
 sand varieties of fuchsias, of which Guernsey seems to be the native 
 soil. The fuchsias grow there all the year round, and spring up in 
 abundance along the roadside, and at every breath of air ring their 
 many-colored bells. You have only to stretch out your hand to gather 
 a whole bouquet of them. Delightful breakfasts are enjoyed in this 
 house, and the dinners are still more pleasant. It gives one an appe- 
 tite, only to see the cheerful room. 
 
 The lower floor is used only at meal-times. The guests are re- 
 ceived on the floor above, which is reached by a stairway so softly 
 padded and carpeted, that, if one should trip, he would suffer nothing 
 more serious than a too sudden descent to the lower hall. Reaching 
 the floor above, you come to a region of wonders. The red room and 
 the blue room form a sort of gallery, whose walls are hung with tapes-
 
 VICTOR HUGO A 7 HOME. 19 1 
 
 tries tinted in gold and silver and pearl, in imitation of the apart- 
 ments which Christine, the Queen of Sweden, occupied at Fontainebleau 
 in the last century. 
 
 The light, refracted from the surfaces of the Venetian pearls, is 
 constantly changing the appearance of the painted and carved monsters 
 and plants which are crawling and climbing over this brilliant back- 
 ground. 
 
 Before the great fireplace, at the back of the rooms, four gilded 
 Moors — which formerly adorned the "Bucentaur," the state barge of 
 Venice — stand, bearing a canopy and torches. The poet has honored 
 these guardians of his hearth with a couplet : — 
 
 " You may see in my house, as among the old Romans, 
 Spectres of gold bearing lamps in their hands." 
 
 And, in truth, these " spectres " do have a weird appearance in the 
 twilight ; and the children never like to be alone with them. Perhaps 
 this may be the fault of a young poet, who, dreaming in the moon- 
 light, exaggerated the weird appearance of Hauteville House, and who 
 undertook to recount the mysteries. He did not believe very much in 
 these things himself, but that did not hinder his making new discov- 
 eries every day. 
 
 The North Tower, according to him, was filled with strange noises 
 and low groans — when the wind was blowing. And he asserted that 
 a great painting of the Spanish school, representing purgatory, became 
 animated when he looked at it with some attention. More than, that, 
 as the room was very dark, one could just distinguish the still shadows 
 which were apparently gathered in low conversation before the sad 
 picture. Finally, he asserted, that in the salon des tapisseries, where 
 there are ancient tapestries bearing representations of rural concerts, 
 music may be heard by one who listens attentively, especially if he is 
 a little sleepy. 
 
 The "master" thought our dreamer had better suspend his re- 
 searches, and perhaps he was a little bold in wishing to go too deeply 
 into matters. If any care to pursue this fancy, we refer them to the 
 " maison visioimee," and to the delightful chapter which Victor Hugo 
 has devoted to it in the "Toilers of the Sea." 
 
 If we again mount the stairs, we come to the third story, where 
 there opens before us a gallery of a richness more delicate than that 
 of the apartments below. Here is a bed in which a certain great army 
 officer slept his last sleep. Religious banners, decorated with exqui-
 
 192 VICTOR HUGO A 7 HOME. 
 
 site embroideries, hang from the walls. In this room there are pieces 
 of furniture and panels made by the poet himself. He has secured 
 wonderful decorative effects by shaping blocks of wood with red-hot 
 irons, and coloring the hollows with brilliant tints. 
 
 Going still one flight higher, we come to the "look-out," where one 
 is very apt to be lost. It is a tangled maze of little rooms and pas- 
 sages and steps, through which a skilful guide will lead you to the 
 working-room of the poet, — a glass-sided room, into which the light 
 pours from all directions. 
 
 Let us now leave this labyrinth, so strangely placed on the roof of 
 the building, from which one can overlook the sea as far as the islands 
 of Sark and Herm. On the garden side, Hauteville House is joined 
 by a building like a greenhouse, whose transparent sides are shaded 
 with thick hangings which run, like drapery curtains, on long rods. 
 Within is a salon, hung with rich tapestries, and furnished with divans 
 of Oriental pattern. At the rear of this salon, where the noises of the 
 street cannot penetrate, there is a room set apart for the preservation 
 of family souvenirs, — busts, portraits, caskets unopened for twenty 
 years or more. This room is seldom entered by the family ; and this 
 circumstance has given it the chill, inhospitable name of the " North 
 Tower." 
 
 But I must say one word about a little house farther down the 
 same street, called " Hauteville Fairyland," and belonging also to the 
 poet. It is one of his chcfs-d'ceuvre, and well illustrates his wonderful 
 originality. His artistic ability is shown in the shutters, the panels, 
 and all the woodwork, upon which impossible but graceful plants are 
 growing, and fearful monsters are creeping and crawling. 
 
 Outside, upon the lawn, the initials V. H., formed by masses of 
 brilliant flowers, stand out in striking relief against a background 
 of green. 
 
 At Hauteville House, Victor Hugo exercises the rites of hospitality 
 in a profuse manner ; and, during his absence from his island, the house 
 is kept open by his sister-in-law, — a pleasant, kindly lady, who shows 
 to all who call, the dwelling of the poet. 
 
 I speak of Guernsey as "his" island; and the people will them- 
 selves tell you that their island belongs to Victor Hugo, their leading 
 citizen.
 
 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 193 
 
 II. 
 
 The varied genius of Victor Hugo has produced works of fiction, 
 volumes of poems, public addresses, pictures, and statues. And, be- 
 sides all that he has shown to the world, he possesses other proofs of 
 his genius and wisdom ; for the portfolios and note-books which he 
 has always carried about with him are filled with his reflections and 
 observations. 
 
 It has always been deemed a high privilege to see great men in 
 the retirement of their homes ; and it would be pleasing to hope that 
 some day these personal notes might be put in shape, and published. 
 But I am sorry to say that probably they will never be issued to the 
 world. They are full of fugitive impressions, unpublished verses, and 
 of plans, of letters and sketches, which were evidently never destined 
 for publication. No one but Victor Hugo could arrange them for pub- 
 lication, and he is too much occupied by more important work to under- 
 take the task. 
 
 But do not think that he would fear to have the world read his 
 most private thoughts. Quite the contrary. He could live at his ease 
 in the glass house told of by Montaigne. His dwelling is open to all 
 who will enter, and he dispenses the rites of hospitality after the fash- 
 ion of the old school. Far from shunning the gaze of those who seek 
 to look into his private life, he throws the door wide open. During 
 his stay in Guernsey in 1878, a friend gained permission to introduce 
 a gentleman who desired to see the poet and his home. The stranger 
 was entertained for a whole day. Some time after, there appeared, in 
 a French paper, a not very kindly article, whose source it was not diffi- 
 cult to discover. The stranger was a reporter, who had come to La 
 MancJie for material for a sensational article. 
 
 But although neither his private secretary nor the poet's friends 
 are permitted to read the note-books of which I have spoken, yet we 
 know much of what is in them from his own lips ; for Victor Hugo 
 often tells the secrets of his life during the quiet hoars of evening 
 conversation with his friends. His reputation as a story-teller was 
 established years ago. And we can study his genius from this point 
 of view in his " Letters on the Rhine," a marvellous collection of 
 anecdotes and impressions. 
 
 Often, when a little circle of dear friends gather about him, he will 
 tell of by-gone days ; and the faithful friend, who has never left his
 
 194 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 side for half a century, comes to his aid, now and then, in recalling 
 events and names. Several times those who have chanced to hear 
 these after-dinner talks have written them, and published them in little 
 books, which have been at once snatched up by the reading-public. 
 But these incomplete reports are seldom accurate. Mingled with the 
 stories and sayings which the writer has heard from the poet's own 
 mouth, are often found anecdotes which have come to him indirectly, 
 and have been much distorted on their way. But the poet cares too 
 little for such matters to be seriously disturbed. 
 
 I have said too much about anecdotes and stories not to tell you 
 one or two. One of them I heard for the first time only last week, 
 and I believe it has never been in print. It is a simple little story, 
 which might have for a name, " How Queen Victoria, when aban- 
 doned by her people, was received by Victor Hugo on the Island of 
 Guernsey." 
 
 One day Queen Victoria, whom the people of Guernsey acknowl- 
 edge as their protector, by the title of Grand Duchess of Normandy, 
 wanted to show these subjects some marks of royal favor. The statue 
 of the good Prince Consort, Albert, had been erected at the Port St. 
 Pierre in Guernsey, much to the gratification of the population ; and, 
 with the desire to still further gain their good will, the Queen deter- 
 mined to visit the island herself. The people were thrown into a state 
 of commotion by the unexpected news. Fort George was put in order ; 
 and all arrangements were made to give pomp to the royal reception, 
 which was to take place on Saturday. At the appointed hour, the 
 Queen left London. 
 
 Unfortunately, the sea would not aid in carrying out the official 
 programme. The steamer which bore the Queen became, as soon as 
 it entered La Manche, the plaything of a terrible tempest. It was out 
 of the question to try to land on Saturday ; and the ship had to put 
 out to sea, to avoid being cast upon the rocks which make the Norman 
 archipelago one of the most dangerous seas. Thus passed one whole 
 day. Then the sea grew quiet, the wind subsided ; and, the next morn- 
 ing, the royal vessel could be seen, apparently preparing to enter the 
 port. 
 
 Here was a great scandal ! It was Sunday : and on Sunday, at 
 Guernsey, the people never come in or go out ; they read the Bible in 
 their families, and sing hymns in the church. There are, in Guernsey, 
 three hundred chapels for thirty thousand people. 
 
 There is no reason to doubt the orthodoxy of the Queen, who, in
 
 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 !95 
 
 truth, is considered very strict in her views at home. But now, worn 
 out by her stormy passage, the royal passenger decided that she would 
 be glad to get on shore. The ship doubled Chateau-Cornet, and 
 steamed into the port St. Pierre, saluted by the cannon of Fort George. 
 
 Victor Hugo and his Grandchildren. 
 
 The rest of the island was buried in silence. Instead of the acclama- 
 tions she had looked for, and the crowd which ordinarily pressed about 
 her wherever she went, the illustrious visitor found herself surrounded 
 by silence and solitude. It seemed as if they were landing on a des- 
 ert island. Where, then, were the loyal subjects of the Duchess of 
 Normandy ?
 
 196 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 They were at church ! The word had gone forth ; and the whole 
 population, animated with holy zeal, had determined to give a bitter 
 lesson to the impiety which profaned the day of the Lord. The 
 preachers in their pulpits compared the Queen to Jezebel, and hurled 
 scriptural texts at her head. The people of Guernsey turned their 
 backs on the Queen of England. 
 
 A solitary gentleman, with his hands in his pockets, and a dreamy 
 look in his eyes, was wandering on the deserted shore. He saw a 
 woman come from the steamer, step on the beach, and approach him. 
 He bowed. Her Gracious Majesty responded with a smile. " Who is 
 this gentleman ? " she asked. 
 
 "Madame, it is Victor Hugo." 
 
 I am sure I do not know what she said, and so I shall not try to 
 tell you. You see, I have the most scrupulous regard for historic 
 truth. I believe the poet had never met the Queen before, but he had 
 some relations with her government ; for to England his house owes, 
 by feudal tenure, the droit de poidage, or yearly payment of a tax, 
 consisting of two hens ! 
 
 Although a stranger and a Frenchman was the first to greet the 
 Queen, it was not long, however, before the inhabitants, satisfied with 
 the lesson they had given her, received her with heartfelt though quiet 
 hospitality. 
 
 One of the most interesting of my recollections of the life at 
 Hauteville House, is that of a grand representation of tableaux, given 
 by the children of the family on the evening of the 23d of October, 
 1878. It was an unusually gloomy autumn, and the brightest days 
 had their hours of rain. The dulness became almost unbearable ; and, 
 when some one suggested tableaux, we were glad to take up the idea, 
 and carry it out. The master — for so the poet's friends call him — 
 received an invitation to be present at the entertainment ; and, when 
 he accepted, it seemed as if the undertaking was already assured of 
 success. It was decided that the representation should be given the 
 very next day, without fail. 
 
 The only trouble was, that the dialogues and scenes had not yet 
 been written, nor the scenery made, nor the costumes prepared. 
 Neither was there any stage or curtain. No matter. If we allow 
 ourselves to be discouraged by mere trifles, we shall never succeed in 
 any thing. The manager took for heroes, George and Jeanne, the 
 grandchildren of the poet. The scenes were arranged with special 
 reference to bringing out the grace and brightness of the children.
 
 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 197 
 
 And the " author " never flinched at using a sofa to represent a three- 
 decked vessel, or taking a footstool for the vessel's long-boat. Almost 
 all the family took part in it ; and the indolent or bashful ones, with 
 some of the neighbors, made up a fine audience. 
 
 The poet seemed much moved by the misfortunes and calamities 
 endured by his grandchildren. At the close of every scene, little 
 Jeanne, the heroine, was arrested, and cast into a gloomy prison, or 
 what represented a gloomy prison. Her persecutors piled arm-chairs, 
 stools, and tables about her ; but she slipped through them all like an 
 eel. At last, when she had escaped for the tenth time, one of the 
 little pursuers seized her ; and seeing in the audience a certain elderly 
 gentleman of honorable appearance, who seemed to merit his confi- 
 dence, he carried his victim to him, and cried, — 
 
 " I intrust the prisoner to you until the next scene. You must be 
 responsible for her, because I must judge her and condemn her before 
 long. If she gets away again, how shall we ever get through ? " 
 
 This bold and unexpected appeal had a wonderful success in win- 
 ning applause from the audience ; and the little girl was kept safe in 
 the arms of her grandfather, who was thus made to take part in the 
 exhibition. 
 
 How much we grow in a few years ! George is now a wise collegian, 
 who can talk Latin ; Jeanne is now Mademoiselle Jeanne ; and Victor 
 Hugo (the fashion must run in the family) has written "Torquemada," 
 and is still growing ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Victor Hugo will be remembered, not only as an author, but as a 
 man. His works, indeed, reflect the author : they all, too, seem to 
 have cast their reflection on him ; and it is this which inspires the 
 affectionate curiosity which pursues him, even into the privacy of his 
 home, and the popularity which was so signally shown by the festival 
 of the 26th of February, 1881. 
 
 Seven hundred thousand people, moved by a spontaneous impulse, 
 defiled in a dense crowd, from eleven o'clock in the morning till five 
 in the afternoon, before the poet's house on that day, and greeted him 
 with their acclamations. This ovation took place in a country where 
 meetings and gatherings are forbidden, since such assemblages easily 
 degenerate there into revolutions. The managers of it, however, — 
 men, for the most part, devoted to literature and the arts, — secured
 
 198 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 the indulgence of the police ; and the procession was allowed to pass 
 freely. 
 
 A poet said to me, as he watched this immense crowd swaying to 
 and fro, " Such a sight has never been seen before, and will never be 
 seen again." 
 
 The popularity of the poet, indeed, does not decrease, but the 
 demonstrations of his admirers take a different form. So it is that 
 this year Paris publishes a " Libre d'Or," or " Golden Book," to which 
 the most famous artists have contributed, and which, when issued, will 
 be one of the most curious monuments which that country has ever 
 raised to the glory of a great man. 
 
 Next year a statue of the poet will be erected on one of the public 
 squares of Paris ; and the place where it shall stand is being discussed. 
 Some wish it to be raised not far from his dwelling, near the artesian 
 well at Passy : others think that its proper site is in front of the 
 Cathedral of Notre Dame, which recalls his dttut as a novelist, and 
 one of his most brilliant successes. 
 
 Victor Hugo represents, not only the reformer who founded the 
 new literary school, and delivered the French language from the tram- 
 mels of classicism, but also the tribune, who has proclaimed and cham- 
 pioned every liberty, often at the peril of his life. 
 
 Born with the century, he grew up with it, gradually freeing him- 
 self from the prejudices of a priestly and monarchical education. This 
 trait of moral growth, and of advancing toward the light, has especially 
 identified him with his age, so that already it is written of as " the 
 century of Victor Hugo." 
 
 He has filled one era with the conquests of his thought : nothing 
 has held ground against him, not even the empire. His complex 
 labors, in which his existence is absolutely bound up, make him the 
 representative of the right, the support of the unfortunate, the consoler 
 of women, and the friend of children. When this is considered, one 
 is no longer surprised at the current of ideas which envelops France, 
 and nearly the entire world, and which draws towards this powerful 
 mind those who love the ideal, and those who are oppressed by tyranny. 
 
 It is thus explained why the poet receives a larger number of let- 
 ters, perhaps, than any man living. Letters are constantly coming to 
 him from every part of the globe. Nor do these always relate to im- 
 portant matters. The inconveniences of fame consist, above all, in 
 little things. The mania of owners of albums and autograph-collect- 
 ors is insatiable. Requests for autographs come in such numbers to
 
 VICTOR HUGO Al HOME. 
 
 199 
 
 Victor Hugo, that it is a sheer impossibility for him to respond to them. 
 You would hardly guess how many young girls get up every morning 
 with this idea in their heads : " Suppose I write to Victor Hugo for his 
 autograph ! " And a thousand dainty, perfumed little letters arrive, 
 one after another, — some of them charming, others bold and indis- 
 creet ; for not only do they ask for a signature, but a thought, a phrase, 
 or unpublished bits of prose and poetry. 
 
 Newly betrothed people write to Victor Hugo for a wedding-song, 
 the parents of new-born infants beg for a benediction, and the bereaved 
 beg for an epitaph to be placed on a tomb about to be erected. Each 
 mail brings its quota of letters, either grave or gay. Cities plead for 
 inscriptions for their monuments, political meetings request a speech, 
 a toast, or a word of sympathy. The most remarkable thing about 
 this correspondence which fairly submerges the poet, is, that he never 
 refuses. He cannot, however, give much time to his correspondence ; 
 for his labors absorb his life. This is not sufficiently considered by 
 the writers who submit to him their manuscripts, and the young authors 
 who send him their essays, with a request for his criticism and advice 
 on them. Even Victor Hugo's good nature is powerless to satisfy these. 
 
 In his laborious existence, the evening alone brings to the poet a 
 few hours of liberty. At dusk, after a short stroll in the Bois de 
 Boulogne, which is near his house, Victor Hugo becomes master of 
 himself, and welcomes his friends, nearly all foreigners of distinction. 
 Above all, those who are men of letters make it a point of honor to 
 call on the poet on reaching Paris. They wish to see and hear the 
 man in whom the genius of an entire nation seems centred. 
 
 His powers of elevated, noble, eloquent conversation, on every 
 subject which interests or excites him, are well known. It is as if he 
 were giving his hearers an unpublished chapter of his works, of which 
 they have the first and exclusive edition. These hours of distraction 
 and relaxation are dear to the poet, who each day receives a special 
 company of invited guests. He has a day set apart for receiving sena- 
 tors, another for journalists, another for men of learning, and another 
 for people of society and the world. Often these various elements 
 mingle, and are dissolved in each other ; for there is no absolute rule 
 about the matter, and often the poet's assemblies are formed spon- 
 taneously. 
 
 Jeanne and George, his grandchildren, pass among the groups of 
 visitors, and enliven the scene with their light, childish gayety. 
 
 There are few famous travellers who have not been seen in Victor
 
 200 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 Hugo's drawing-room. Crowned heads themselves are sometimes 
 represented there. The Emperor of Brazil once visited the poet. A 
 well-meaning diplomatist tried to regulate the etiquette of the call ; 
 but he ran against this delicate point, that, though people go to see 
 Victor Hugo, Victor Hugo does not go to see anybody. The diplo- 
 matist found his task too much for him. At the end of his fruitless 
 negotiations, Victor Hugo cut them short, by saying, — 
 
 " Please tell the emperor that we dine here at precisely eight 
 o'clock ; and that, on any day when he would like to come and see me, 
 another plate will be gladly added to those set for our guests." 
 
 The poet had well-nigh forgotten these words, when, about a week 
 after, just as the family were about to sit down at table, a stranger, 
 with a frank, open face, habited in a long frock-coat, rather timidly 
 presented himself. 
 
 " I have some need of being encouraged," said he to the master of 
 the house, who came forward, and offered the visitor his hand. 
 
 He was at once recognized, and the republicans who were present 
 hastened to make a place for this cordial royal personage. The con- 
 versation turned upon a thousand topics, and the poet and the emperor 
 were equally brilliant. The latter avowed that he devoted the sums 
 voted by his Parliament for adorning his palaces to the erection of 
 schools. And so interesting was the conversation, that the party, 
 instead of breaking up as usual at midnight, lingered until two in the 
 morning. 
 
 All this happened in the third story of a house in the Rue Clichy, 
 which the poet left in 1878, after his long sojourn at Guernsey. On 
 returning to France, he took up his residence in a house on the avenue 
 which now bears his name. This is in the Passy quarter, on one of 
 the highest points of ground in Paris. His house is No. 50. Attached 
 to it is a large garden, full of flowers and verdure. The windows of 
 his study look out upon this garden, shaded by tall trees which sway 
 in the breeze. 
 
 The poet rarely goes into the garden ; but, as he stands erect at his 
 desk, — for he never writes sitting down, — he looks out at the sky, 
 and rests his eyes upon the gravelled walks where George and Jeanne 
 arc playing with their companions and their well-bred domestic pets. 
 Among these latter are two poodle dogs, whose grave demeanor betrays 
 their great age ; and a very handsome, lazy cat, which answers to the 
 name of " Gavroche," this being borrowed from the name of the street- 
 boy in Victor Hugo's " Les Miserables."
 
 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 20 1 
 
 Gavroche lives on a footing of armed neutrality with three white 
 ducks, which walk up and down in Indian file, and which suddenly 
 face about if the cat approaches them too closely. The cat then re- 
 tires, and has recourse to the parrots, which chirp in the groves, and 
 
 THE STUDY-' 
 
 rouse his hunting propen- 
 sities. His ears prick up, 
 his fur bristles, and he crouches 
 flat on the ground. But his An- 
 gora pride does not permit him 
 to accomplish his end by leaps 
 and bounds. He advances toward 
 the birds with long and stealthy 
 step. The flock takes its flight, at which Gavroche seems surprised. 
 Let us not leave the garden without admiring a beautiful laurel- 
 tree, which dates from the festival of the 26th of February, 1881. The 
 " Society of the Men of Letters " made a gift to Victor Hugo, on that 
 occasion, of a vigorous and superb laurel ten feet high. This had been 
 submerged for twenty-four hours in a galvanic bath. Under the action
 
 202 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 
 
 of the battery, the laurel became gilded from top to bottom with leaves, 
 twigs, and flowers. The earth which had nourished it, and the vase 
 which had enclosed it, were all gilded. It seemed to have come from 
 the River Pactolus. It was, for a while, thought to be dead ; but it 
 appears that gold revivifies. After several months, the sap made the 
 gilding crack, so that it burst, and peeled off, and gave place to green 
 and vigorous sprouts. The tree is to-day full of life and health. It 
 is directly opposite this usually silent landscape, where the golden tree 
 is growing, that the poet writes, covering large sheets of Dutch paper 
 with his sculptural penmanship. 
 
 Let it be remarked that Victor Hugo has had several styles of 
 handwriting, — a fact which will later on give rise to interesting dis- 
 cussions on chirography. Before his exile, in 185 1, his manuscripts 
 were in a very small hand. The Alexandrine verses flowed in slender 
 columns, and could only be read with difficulty with the naked eye. 
 At the time he wrote " La Legende des Siecles," and especially the 
 second part of it, his handwriting assumed a magnificent amplitude. 
 His "copy" had a ferocious and tempestuous look. Erasures furrowed 
 it like lightning, and flashed in violent strokes. 
 
 These tempests issued from quill-pens, matches, or reeds ; for the 
 master writes with almost any thing except metallic pens, which he 
 abhors. This carelessness as to the instrument with which he fixes 
 his thought is so great, that Victor Hugo uses indifferently the nib or 
 the back of his pen without soiling his hands, of which he takes much 
 care. 
 
 From his study, which is also his bedroom, the poet descends into 
 his drawing-room by a thickly carpeted staircase. The drawing-rooms, 
 which join the dining-room, open upon a long gallery, which lets into 
 the garden. It is here that the master receives his guests of every 
 rank, and every shade of opinion. His house is a neutral ground, 
 where every sincere opinion may be freely expressed. Victor Hugo 
 presides over the conversation with a toleration from which he seldom 
 departs, even in presence of political and literary heresies ; nor does 
 he ever reprove any, except those whom he most loves. The liberality 
 with which all are invited imposes an arduous task upon Madame 
 Drouet, the poet's faithful friend, whose difficult duty it is to assort 
 the guests of each dinner, so as to put people of similar tastes next 
 to each other at the table. There is nothing which is not thus done 
 with an exquisite tact and a perfect good grace. 
 
 Dinner is rarely prolonged later than nine o'clock. The company
 
 VICTOR HUGO AT HOME. 203 
 
 then returns to the drawing-rooms, which are furnished very much as 
 were those occupied by the poet in the Rue Clichy. Red hangings, 
 with brilliant yellow bands ; mirrors in carved frames ; gilding, and a 
 chandelier of Venetian crystal ; a Louis XV. clock, which is regulated 
 every day, and is always a quarter of an hour too fast ; two bronzes ; 
 a Japanese elephant armed for battle ; a copy of Michael Angelo's 
 " Moses ; " and chairs in Aubusson point, give the rooms an aspect at 
 once elegant and serious.
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 By JAMES PARTON. 
 
 IT was in 1822 that a little volume of poems, entitled "Odes et 
 Ballades," by Victor Hugo, appeared in Paris. It excited a tem- 
 pest of controversy, which caused it to sell with a rapidity that was 
 extremely convenient to the young poet ; for he was deeply in love with 
 a young lady who had been his playmate in childhood. 
 
 His volume was published in June. In October the poet was mar- 
 ried. In December he gave the public a second edition, with a firm 
 but modest preface, in which he defended himself and his work against 
 attacks. This edition was followed by other editions, with new and 
 longer prefaces ; and, from that time to this, these " Odes and Ballads " 
 have been reprinted every two or three years. The edition now 
 lying before me is dated 1875, and there has been another published 
 since. 
 
 It is not usual for poetry to excite angry controversy. Why, then, 
 should this volume have so inflamed the passions of men ? To answer 
 that question, I must tell you who this poet was, and how he had 
 lived. No poet of modern times has had so romantic a history. His 
 father was Joseph Leopold Sigisbert Hugo, one of Napoleon's most 
 active and intelligent officers. While serving in La Vendee, he fell 
 in love with, and married, an armorer's daughter, who was a devoted 
 royalist ; her name, Sophie Tr^buchet. Three sons were the fruit of 
 this marriage, all of whom were distinguished in literature ; although 
 Victor is the only one whose fame has reached foreign countries. 
 
 In this poet, then, was mingled the blood and spirit of both the 
 parties which then divided France. Gen. Hugo had been first a re- 
 publican, and then a soldier of the empire. His wife never ceased to 
 cherish in her heart the warmest devotion to the old line of kings. 
 
 The poet was born, as he tells us in one of his early poems, at the 
 204
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 205 
 
 ancient city of Besancon. Like many other men who have enjoyed 
 a vigorous old age, he was born extremely feeble, — an infant, he says, 
 without color, without voice, given up by every one but his mother. 
 No one expected him to live through the day ; and nothing saved him, 
 except what he calls the " obstinacy " of his mother, who lavished upon 
 this fragile child a double portion of a mother's tenderness. 
 
 When he was six weeks old, his father was ordered to the island 
 of Elba. During the remainder of Napoleon's reign, the mother and 
 her boys had no permanent resting-place. Part of the time, the father 
 held a command in Naples under King Joseph. When the latter 
 changed the crown of Naples for that of Spain, Gen. Hugo left Italy 
 also ; and his family passed two years in Paris. It was at this time that 
 the boy saw Napoleon, an event which makes the subject of one of his 
 most pleasing poems. 
 
 He was then seven years old, and he merely saw the emperor pass. 
 He stole away from his mother, in order to get a look at the man of 
 whom he had heard so much ; and he tells us what it was in the em- 
 peror that struck his boyish mind. It was not, he says, the enthusiasm 
 of the people, nor the splendor of his escort, nor even the battered old 
 hat that he wore, "more beautiful than a diadem," nor even the old 
 grenadiers of his guard, nor the ten vassal princes who followed him. 
 It was none of these things that moved the boy. 
 
 "What struck me," he says, "and remained graven upon my mem- 
 ory, was to see, amid all those pomps and splendors, this Sovereign 
 Man passing on silent and grave, like a god of bronze." 
 
 In the evening of the same day, when his father came home, Victor 
 asked him why Napoleon looked so. The general made no reply. But 
 the next day the child returned to the charge, and besought an expla- 
 nation. The father gave a long discourse, comparing Napoleon to the 
 still depths of the ocean, to the motionless roots of the mighty oak, to 
 the silent, fruitful earth. In his mind, all was formed. 
 
 The boy saw the emperor pass a second time, wearing always the 
 same severe, cold expression of countenance, as of a man who had 
 undertaken a task far transcending human ability, — the government 
 of an empire by his own unaided wisdom. 
 
 The storm of war called the father far away, leaving this wonderful 
 boy for two years to the influence of his mother in Paris. They lived, 
 during this period, in an old convent, in a quiet part of Paris ; and 
 there he imbibed his mother's love for the old king and the old ways. 
 He tells us all about this part of his life in an enchanting poem, which
 
 206 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 I wish I could worthily translate ; but I cannot. No one could, unless 
 he were a poet little inferior to Victor Hugo himself. 
 
 " I had," he says, " in my blond infancy, alas ! too brief, three 
 masters, — a garden, an old priest, and my mother. The garden was 
 large, well shaded, mysterious, closed in by high walls from curious 
 eyes, sown with flowers, full of humming noises. The priest, nour- 
 ished upon Tacitus and Homer, was a gentle and good old man. My 
 mother — was my mother! So I grew up under this triple ray." 
 
 And then he goes on to tell how, at last, his mother began to think 
 it was time for the boy to go to school ; and how a learned doctor, with 
 narrow forehead and solemn countenance, came to talk to his mother 
 about it, and was very positive that the boy ought not to waste his time 
 any longer under the tutelage of those three. When the doctor was 
 gone, the poor mother was sad and thoughtful ; but, at last, the garden 
 carried the day. The poet represents the garden arguing the case 
 with the mother, and advising her to leave her child to grow up under 
 its influence. The mother yielded, and the child remained. 
 
 Doubtless the garden had the best of the argument ; for there was 
 every thing in the old convent, and the grounds adjacent, which could 
 nourish a Victor Hugo ten years of age. 
 
 But one day, when he and his brothers were in the garret of the 
 convent, they saw upon the top of a cupboard a huge black book, far 
 above their reach. They managed to climb up in some way, and get 
 it down. It proved to be a large old Bible, full of pictures ; and, as 
 they opened its leaves, they knew, from the odor of incense which 
 came from them, that the book had formerly been used in the services 
 of the chapel. It was not common in French families for the chil- 
 dren to have access to a Bible, and to these three boys the book was 
 a treasure all new. 
 
 "From the first word," the poet relates, "it appeared to us so 
 lovely, that, forgetting to play, we three gathered about it on our 
 knees, and set ourselves to read. We read all the morning about 
 Joseph, Ruth, and Boaz, the Good Samaritan ; and, more and more 
 charmed, we read it again in the evening." 
 
 Oh, yes ! The old garden was in the right. The boy was richly 
 nourished, until the father summoned them away to join him in Spain, 
 where he held an important command under the same King Joseph ; 
 and there they remained until the fall of Napoleon drew them all back 
 to Paris again. 
 
 A great calamity now fell upon this household. Gen. Hugo, like
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 207 
 
 most of the old soldiers of the empire, adhered to the dethroned and 
 exiled emperor ; while his Vendean wife was more warmly attached 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 than ever to the restored Bourbons. This difference ended at last in 
 their separation. 
 
 The father, designing to make soldiers of his boys, placed them at 
 a great and famous school in Paris, and assumed the entire direction
 
 208 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 of their lives. Victor, however, showed such a decided preference for 
 literary life, that his father at length ceased to oppose his will ; and 
 the lad gave himself wholly up to poetry. It is a custom for the 
 French Academy to offer occasionally a prize for the best poem on a 
 given subject. The subject proposed for 1817 was " The Advantages 
 of Study." Victor Hugo was then fifteen years of age. 
 
 He wrote a poem for the prize, which would probably have been suc- 
 cessful but for the last line, wherein the poet said that he was "scarcely 
 fifteen." The poem was so remarkable, that the committee thought 
 that this line could not possibly be true ; and they regarded it as an 
 "ill-timed mystification." Hence, they awarded the prize to another 
 poem, and accorded this one only an honorable mention. It was some- 
 thing more than mentioned, however ; for the committee quoted some 
 lines of it, and said, — 
 
 " If, indeed, the author is so young as he says, the academy must 
 give its encouragement to the young poet who wrote these verses." 
 
 Thus, every thing urged him towards the path he was to follow 
 through life. As he approached manhood, he imbibed more of his 
 mother's devotion to the royal family, and to the system they repre- 
 sented. His first volume of poems, therefore, the " Odes and Ballads " 
 above mentioned, gave eloquent and moving expression to these senti- 
 ments. It recalled all the glories of the ancient monarchy, gratified 
 most keenly the court and the world of fashion, and stirred the wrath 
 of the old republicans, the old soldiers, and the old unbelievers. 
 
 To give the reader an idea of the resolute manner in which he 
 placed himself in opposition to the undercurrents of feeling and 
 thought, it would be necessary to give many passages from this bold, 
 tender, and powerful work. Take only this passage from one of the 
 prefaces, where he replies to those who had censured his departure 
 from old models : — 
 
 "The poet ought to have but one model, — nature; only one guide, — truth. Of 
 all the books which circulate among men, only two ought to be studied by him, — 
 Homer and the Bible. In them we find the whole of creation considered under its 
 twofold aspect, — in Homer, by the genius of man; in the Bible, by the Spirit of 
 God." 
 
 The little book, as I have said, succeeded beyond all his hopes. 
 He married the girl of his heart ; and in the nick of time, when he 
 was beginning to feel the inconveniences of keeping house without an 
 income, the benevolent old king, Louis XVIII., gave him a small pen 
 sion. This, however, was not for his poetry alone. An old friend of
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 209 
 
 Victor Hugo, charged with conspiracy against the government, was 
 hiding in Paris against the police. The poet wrote to the mother of 
 the accused, offering him an asylum in his own house ; "for," said he, 
 " I am too much of a royalist for any one to think of coming to look 
 for him in a room of mine." 
 
 This letter was opened at the post-office, and shown to the king. 
 When he had read it, he said, — 
 
 " I know this young man. In this matter he conducts himself hon- 
 orably. I grant him the next vacant pension." 
 
 The vacancy occurred none too soon ; for, about this time, his 
 father, with fifty others of the old generals of the empire, was dropped 
 from the army-list. Gen. Hugo died in 1828, leaving unfinished a work 
 on fortification, which has not yet seen the light. From this time, the 
 young poet had little to depend upon but his own labors as poet and 
 dramatist. In one of his prose-works, he gives an interesting account 
 of his early married life, when his beautiful wife was in the prime of 
 her days, and his two sons and two daughters were playing about his 
 feet as he sat at his desk. His life, he tells us, was rude, but sweet. 
 In the evening, before settling to his work for the night, he would lie 
 down upon the floor ; and the little ones would climb up on him, laugh- 
 ing, singing, jesting, playing. The mother taught them to read : he 
 taught them to write. Sometimes he wrote with them upon the same 
 table, — they, alphabets and strokes; he, something else: and, while 
 they slowly and seriously wrote their strokes and letters, he finished 
 a swift page. 
 
 Since those happy, peaceful days, what a life the poet has lived, 
 what events he has witnessed ! He has written twenty volumes of 
 poetry, some of which is the best in the whole literature of France. 
 He has written nine romances, several of which have been translated 
 into every civilized language of the earth. He has written ten plays, 
 of which five or six made great successes. He has written nearly 
 twenty volumes, large and small, of prose, much of it admirable, and 
 all of it breathing the noblest love of human kind. 
 
 Besides this enormous mass of literature, he has served his coun- 
 try with disinterested zeal under every administration, and, best of 
 all, under Louis Napoleon, when he lived nineteen years an exile, and 
 refused the amnesty offered him by that basest of all usurpers. 
 
 I do not wonder at the late unparalleled celebration of his eightieth 
 birthday in Paris, a festival in which the whole population of the city 
 seemed to take part, at least by filing past his house, and by giving
 
 2IO VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 him a respectful salute. All the houses of the street in which he 
 lived were decorated with flags and streamers ; and nearly every organ- 
 ized body in Paris, whether musical, literary, political, or social, took 
 part in the procession. Let me add a few words ; for I have before 
 me a complete account of the whole festival, published in Paris three 
 days after it. 
 
 Before the procession began in the morning, a group of little chil- 
 dren, from four to six years of age, clothed in white, rose-color, and 
 blue, came to greet the " Grandfather," on behalf of all the other little 
 children of Paris. A bewitching little girl stepped forward, and recited 
 some verses to this effect : — 
 
 " We are the little birds, light of wing, who come to sing songs to 
 the Eagle. He is terrible, but very nice ; and, without making him in 
 the least angry, we can thrust our heads under his wing. 
 
 " We are, though still in the bud, the flowers of the coming dawn, 
 which perfume the golden mosses of the oak. 
 
 "We are little children who. come, gay, active, happy, to greet with 
 triumphant laughter the Ancestor. If Jeanne and George [grandchil- 
 dren of Victor Hugo] are jealous, so much the worse for them. That 
 is their affair. And now kiss us, grandfather." 
 
 Jeanne and George were not jealous ; and the aged poet, with tears 
 in his eyes, kissed and thanked them. Soon after this scene, the 
 avenue was filled with the children of the infant schools, who clamored 
 for a sight of the poet. He appeared at the window with his grand- 
 children. Every boy took off his hat ; every girl waved her handker- 
 chief ; every voice cried, " Vive Victor Hugo ! Vive la Republique ! " 
 So began this wonderful festival, which did not close until midnight.
 
 ST. PIERRE, 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 THERE are certain books that are read to be laid aside, and there 
 are certain other books that are laid aside to be read. No one 
 who reads at all gets through life without having perused " The Vicar 
 of Wakefield" and "Paul and Virginia." These two stories are some- 
 times bound up together for the immediate use of young persons, who 
 are sure to be told that they cannot afford to remain long in the world, 
 and be ignorant of the people who are native to these attractive 
 volumes. 
 
 My first pilgrimage in London was to the rooms which Goldsmith 
 had occupied, for I could not remember the time when " The Vicar of 
 Wakefield " was not a delight to me ; and, landing at Havre on my 
 earliest visit to Europe, I had not been on shore a single hour before 
 seeking out the house in which the author of " Paul and Virginia " was 
 born, in the year 1737. I found the place without difficulty, having 
 obtained direction to the locality from the very first person I appealed 
 to in the street. 
 
 Early in life, I adopted the plan, when in a strange place, either at 
 home or abroad, of asking information, as to street or person, of an 
 intelligent-looking female, rather than to one of my own sex, and for 
 this reason : Men are apt to be hurrying along, bent solely on their 
 own affairs, and do not care to be stopped by a stranger, and questioned 
 as to matters unimportant to themselves. Besides, your average well- 
 dressed man on the sidewalk is not half so apt to be possessed of the 
 requisite knowledge as ladies who are moving over the same pavement. 
 Male pedestrians, nine out of ten, are superficial, ill-mannered, and in- 
 different, or not in the mood for conferring favor of information on an
 
 2 12 ST. PIERRE. 
 
 inquiring stranger. Women, on the contrary, are habitually more sym- 
 pathetic, and inclined to oblige. They are certainly, as a constitu- 
 tional characteristic, much more graciously mannered than men ; and 
 I am yet to receive the first gruff reply from a lady in the street, when 
 I have requested answer to any question necessary for my convenience 
 to be solved. 
 
 The mode of bestowing a kindness is often of more value than the 
 thing conferred. The art of being gracious is, to put it mildly, not 
 exclusively possessed by those who go about the streets inside of 
 hats, coats, and trousers. A man appealed to in the street tells you 
 he does not know with a short, sharp report, like an unsympathetic 
 revolver. A woman, not able to answer your question, does so with an 
 apologetic smile and a beneficent tone, which linger in your memory 
 sometimes like Titian's portraits, which, Hazlitt says, are all sustained 
 by sentiment, and look as if the persons whom he painted sat to 
 music. 
 
 Foreigners, perhaps, have more sympathy for strangers who need 
 information than either English or Americans ; and the instructed 
 lady who showed me the nearest way to No. 47, Rue de la Corderie, 
 in Havre, seemed pleased that she could render me so gracious a ser- 
 vice. Titania's exhortatory line to the elves in the case of Nick 
 Bottom, " Be kind and courteous to this gentleman," could not have 
 been better carried out. The good woman insisted upon proceeding 
 with me to the quaint old house, although it was evidently not in the 
 direction she was going when I met her ; but the service was performed 
 so kindly, I could not offer a word of protest. Leading me along the 
 quays, we threaded our way through the bustling streets, piled up with 
 cotton-bales, sugar-hogsheads, and other commodities, all reminding 
 me of the tropical countries which had made Havre their port of trade. 
 Unwonted cries of parrots and macaws filled the air, and their spar- 
 kling plumage made the streets resplendent with color. At length we 
 came to the house we were in search of. 
 
 Entering the little shop on the lower floor, the master of it came 
 smiling towards me, and politely inquired what he could do to serve me. 
 
 " Will monsieur please to be seated ? " 
 
 " Merci ! but I have no business," was my reply. 
 
 The little perruquier looked disappointed, and began to display his 
 wares, consisting of odorous soap, combs, brushes, and other useful 
 articles for the toilet. 
 
 " I have taken the liberty of entering the house in which the
 
 ST. PIERRE. 213 
 
 famous author of ' Paul and Virginia ' was born, and of paying, as an 
 American, the homage of my admiration for his genius," said I. 
 
 "Ah! he was indeed a grand author, and I am proud to do busi- 
 ness on the very spot where he was born," replied the man. 
 
 The barber and I then sat down together near his door, for it was 
 an hour of the day when no customers were stirring ; and we then and 
 there compared notes as to the great merits of St. Pierre, whose works 
 were as familiar as the prayer-book to my new friend. Indeed, he 
 had a small copy of "The Indian Cottage " on his shelf of perfumes; 
 and he handed it down for my inspection. 
 
 This, then, was the birthplace of a man who had given so much 
 pleasure to the world, the starting-point of a being destined to confer 
 so lasting a benefit on mankind. The little barber being called away 
 to wait upon a pompous and well-powdered gentleman, who desired to 
 have his wig put in "grand style " for the fete to be held next day at 
 Ingouville, I had the whole doorway to myself. Many a time St. 
 Pierre, when a youth, must have passed over this threshold. A man 
 of acute sensibility all his life, in this narrow street he must have suf- 
 fered some of the pangs that wait upon a temperament like his. I 
 remember he says, somewhere in his works, that a single thorn could 
 give him greater pain than a hundred roses confer pleasure : and I also 
 recalled how deeply he was wounded by envious and malicious contem- 
 poraries, and how frequently disease lay in wait for him ; how, at one 
 time, he was seized with a strange malady, flashes of fire resembling 
 lightning dancing before his eyes, every object appearing double and 
 moving, — like CEdipus, seeing two suns in heaven. For years he was 
 a man " perplexed in the extreme ; " and what he endured, people born 
 without nerves can never comprehend. 
 
 The complete works of St. Pierre fill twelve octavo volumes ; but 
 his fame will always rest on that tender little idyl, so full of romantic 
 interest, published in 1788, which was written in a garret on the Rue 
 St. fitienne-du-Mont in Paris. 
 
 A touching incident, connected with the manuscript of " Paul and 
 Virginia," is recorded by L. Aime-Martin. Madame Necker invited 
 St. Pierre to bring his new story into her salon, and read it, before 
 publication, to a company of distinguished and enlightened auditors. 
 She promised that the judges she would convene to hear him were 
 among those she esteemed the most worthy. Monsieur Necker him- 
 self, as a distinguished favor, would be at home on the occasion. Buf- 
 fon, the Abbe Galiani, Monsieur and Madame Germain, were among
 
 214 ST. PIERRE. 
 
 the tribunal when St. Pierre appeared, and sat down with the manu- 
 script of " Paul and Virginia " open before him. 
 
 At first he was heard in profound silence. He went on, and the 
 attention grew languid : the august assembly began to whisper, to 
 yawn, and then to listen no longer. Monsieur de Buffon pulled out 
 his watch, and called for his horses. Those sitting near the door noise- 
 lessly slipped out. One of the company was seen in profound slum- 
 ber. Some of the ladies wept, but Monsieur Necker jeered at them ; 
 and they, ashamed of their tears, dared not confess how much inter- 
 ested they had been. When the reading was finished, not one word of 
 praise followed it. Madame Necker criticised the conversations in the 
 book, and spoke of the tedious and commonplace action in the story. 
 A shower of iced water seemed to fall on poor St. Pierre, who retired 
 from the room in a state of overwhelming depression. He felt as if 
 a sentence of death had been pronounced on his story, and that " Paul 
 and Virginia" was unworthy to appear before the public eye. 
 
 But a man of genius — the painter, Joseph Vernet, who had not 
 been present at the reading at Madame Necker's — dropped in one 
 morning on St. Pierre in his garret, and revived his almost sinking 
 courage. " Perhaps monsieur will read his new story to his friend 
 Vernet ? " So the author took up his manuscript, which since the 
 fatal day had been cast aside, and began to read. As Vernet listened, 
 the charm fell upon him, and at every page he uttered an exclamation 
 of delight. Soon he ceased to praise : he only wept. When St. Pierre 
 reached that part of the book which Madame Necker had found so 
 much fault with, the author proposed to omit that portion of the nar- 
 rative ; but Vernet would not consent to omit any thing. When the 
 book was finished, Vernet threw his arms about St. Pierre, and told 
 him he had produced a masterpiece. 
 
 "My friend," exclaimed Vernet, "you are a great painter, and I 
 dare to promise you a splendid reputation!" Fifty editions, in the 
 year "Paul and Virginia" was published, attested the wise judgment 
 of Joseph Vernet. 
 
 St. Pierre was an enthusiast for nature ; and we can never be grate- 
 ful enough to the men and women, who, like him, have written books 
 to make us more in love with her beauties and harmonies, who have 
 themselves been transported with the glories of her divine works, — 
 those careful observers and students who have the power to bring, 
 even in winter months, the robins singing again about our doors, as 
 in the summer-time.
 
 ST. PIERRE. 2I<; 
 
 For my own part, I can never be sufficiently thankful for the 
 writings of Wordsworth, Thomson, Cowper, Bryant, Thoreau, Kings- 
 ley, and those other high-priests of nature, who have spoken to us, 
 either in their loftiest or simplest moods, of what is so elevating and 
 instructive. It is a good thing to be alive while John Burroughs is 
 bringing out, at pleasant intervals, his delightful volumes, so full of 
 grace and accurate suggestion ; and I always wish to take off my hat 
 in homage, when I face him in the street, to George B. Emerson, for 
 those two noble volumes which can make the forests of Massachusetts 
 our neighbors and companions every day in the year. 
 
 St. Pierre's " Studies of Nature " is full of interest, discursive 
 though it is apt to be in many of its chapters. In one of the passages 
 of this work, he expressed a wish that he might find a suitable com- 
 panion for life. Many letters, making overtures for the situation, 
 poured in upon him. He finally married a beautiful and accomplished 
 daughter of the celebrated printer, Didot ; and two of their children 
 were named Paul and Virginia. Some time after her death, he es- 
 poused, in second marriage, a young girl of noble family named De 
 Pellepore, with whom he lived in conjugal felicity to the end of his 
 career. The disparity of their ages was no bar to their happiness ; 
 and the lady is described, by those who knew her, as a model wife, and 
 most careful guardian of his children. 
 
 St. Pierre died in the month of January, 1814, at the age of 
 seventy-seven. His last years were filled with tranquillity, and were 
 as happy as his youthful ones had been sad and restless. He was a 
 beautiful old man in personal appearance ; and his long silver hair, 
 flowing carelessly over his well-knit shoulders, gave him prominence, 
 as an individual, even in the crowded streets of Paris. The common 
 people knew and loved his venerable form, and, as they passed, always 
 saluted with reverence the author of " Paul and Virginia."
 
 JULES GREW, 
 
 THIRD PRESIDENT OF FRANCE. 
 
 By JAMES PARTON. 
 
 THE first remark that occurs to one on seeing a photograph of 
 President Grevy, is, that he does not look like a Frenchman. 
 
 A broad-shouldered, strong man, with an open, serene countenance, 
 close-cut whiskers, and a marked expression of good temper, cheerful- 
 ness, and benevolence, he would pass anywhere for an English or 
 American man of business. His forehead is broad and high, and the' 
 whole look of the man inspires confidence and respect. 
 
 It is an error, however, to suppose that every Frenchman is a slen- 
 der, bowing, gesticulating person, with baggy trousers, and a ticket 
 for a ball always in his pocket. France is inhabited by as many kinds 
 of people as England is ; and the French differ from one another as 
 much as a Yorkshire man does from a man of Kent, or as either of 
 these does from the people of Cornwall. 
 
 Jules Grevy is a native of the department of the Jura, which is 
 traversed by the Alpine Mountains of that name. Between the ridges 
 of the Jura Mountains, which are about as high as our White Moun- 
 tains, are deep, extensive, and fertile valleys, which have been inhabited 
 by many generations of a strong and peculiar race. 
 
 The men of the Jura, the tallest in France, are distinguished, as 
 Monsieur Reclus informs us, by a short body, broad shoulders, long 
 limbs, and a thoughtful, astute character. Without being cold and 
 phlegmatic, they have always been noted for self-control ; and hence 
 they have excelled as diplomatists. They are not a talkative people, 
 like the Frenchmen of the interior provinces. 
 
 The father of Jules Grevy was a true child of the French Revolu- 
 tion. When volunteers were called for, in 1792, to defend France 
 216
 
 JULES GREW. 
 
 217 
 
 against the invading kings, the young farmer Grevy was one who 
 shouldered the patriotic musket ; and his comrades elected him chef-de- 
 battaillon, a rank nearly corresponding to our major. He fought for 
 his country until peace was made. Then, like a true republican soldier, 
 he returned to his farm, and spent the rest of his days in cultivating 
 
 the soil. 
 
 ~ " ^' l '^| 
 
 This Burgundy farm- 
 er was able to give his 
 three boys a profes- 
 sional education. The 
 two elder were bred to 
 the law : the youngest, 
 Paul, entered the mili- 
 tary school. 
 
 Jules Greuy. 
 
 Jules pursued his education at the College of Poligmy, a few miles 
 from his home. This was fortunate ; because it retained him in the 
 family circle, under the influence of his liberal-minded father. 
 
 That father had an insight into the causes and the nature of the 
 French Revolution, which came from his having lived through it, and 
 otfered his life for it. It has been frequently remarked of President 
 Grevy, that he has a singularly clear and sympathetic comprehension
 
 218 JULES GREW. 
 
 of the revolutionary period. He imbibed it, as Daniel Webster im- 
 bibed his love of the Constitution of the United States, from the 
 conversations at his father's fireside. 
 
 Jules Grevy acquired at home that republican sense and insight 
 which have made him the first ruler of his country who has at heart 
 believed in the republic. 
 
 At the age of seventeen he was in Paris, pursuing his legal studies. 
 This was the memorable year, 1830, when Charles X. was driven from 
 the throne, and Louis Philippe took his uneasy seat upon it. 
 
 That revolution began with tearing down from the walls of Paris 
 the king's posters, announcing that freedom of the press was at an 
 end in France. A great multitude of girls, lads, and young men, 
 encouraged by their elders, ran up and down the streets, removing and 
 obliterating the offensive proclamations. One of the students who 
 engaged in this exercise was Jules Grevy. 
 
 He was admitted to the bar in 1837, an d began practice in Paris, 
 with small chance of a successful career. He was on the right side 
 in politics, which is often the wrong side for prompt success in a 
 learned profession. 
 
 But, as Louis Philippe opposed more and more the will of the peo- 
 ple, he created more business for opposition lawyers, among whom 
 Jules Grevy early distinguished himself for his firm, moderate, and 
 able defence of persons prosecuted by the government for political 
 offences. In 1839, when he was but twenty-six years of age, and had 
 been but two years an advocate, he won signal honor by defending, 
 before the Court of Peers, two prisoners, Phillipet and Quignot, 
 accused of an offence which the government called insurrection. The 
 credit he won in this case brought him many similar ones, and pre- 
 pared the way for all his subsequent career. He arrived at length at 
 the highest rank among the lawyers of Paris. 
 
 His public life dates from the flight of Louis Philippe in 1848, the 
 second king whom he had seen forced to make a hasty escape across 
 the Channel from the indignation of the people of France. He was 
 then thirty-five years of age, known chiefly as an able, strenuous, 
 cheerful, plodding lawyer, with strong republican opinions. The pro- 
 visional government sent him to his native Jura, clothed, for a time, 
 with great, almost despotic, powers. These powers he exercised with 
 his accustomed moderation, using his best endeavors, not to inflame 
 the passions of the people, but to allay the prevailing excitement. 
 When the crisis was at an end, he was elected one of the seven
 
 JULES GREW. 219 
 
 members of the assembly to which his province was entitled, and his 
 majority was the greatest of the seven. 
 
 Transferred to the national legislature, he was still the same man 
 as at the bar, — laborious in investigation, strong and unpretending 
 in speech. Without being extreme or unpractical, he was a decided 
 and uncompromising republican. He believed in the republic. He 
 also felt that France was at heart so republican, that there never 
 could be popular content and stable peace until the national longing 
 for a republic, baffled as it had been for sixty years, should be gratified. 
 
 When Jules Grevy heard the tidings, on the morning of Dec. 2, 
 185 1, of Louis Napoleon's treason, he went at once to meet his col- 
 leagues, to discuss with them what it became them to do. He advised 
 armed resistance ; but the usurper had taken his measures, and the 
 member from Jura soon found himself a prisoner with the rest of the 
 republican leaders. Resistance was manifestly impossible. Ere long 
 Jules Grevy was at his old work in the Paris courts, defending, as best 
 he could, men accused by the agents of the self-chosen ruler. 
 
 During the long period, nearly twenty years, of the imperial regime, 
 Grevy was one of the select band of patriotic men who were called 
 " Irreconcilables." He maintained a firm and prudent opposition to 
 the measures of the government, particularly to the war with Germany, 
 which was more nearly devoid of cause than any other war of modern 
 times. Before a soldier had marched, he foretold publicly that the war 
 would be "disastrous for France." The usurpation ended, he returned 
 to the assembly, which elected him its president with a near approach to 
 unanimity. He acquired an ascendency over the unruly body, naturally 
 resulting from the combined strength and serenity of his mind. 
 
 After serving as president for two stormy years, he resigned under 
 circumstances which greatly increased his reputation and influence. 
 He called to order the Duke de Grammont for applying the word 
 "impertinent " to a remark by another member. The aristocratic party 
 clamored against this act of discipline, and would not be appeased. 
 The chairman addressed them thus : — 
 
 " Gentlemen, if I have not performed the duties of my place as 
 you have the right to demand of me, it is necessary that I should know 
 it. I neither asked for, nor sought, the place to which you elected me. 
 " I have fulfilled my duty to the best of my ability, according to my 
 sense of justice, and with impartiality. If I do not, in return, obtain 
 from you, gentlemen, the justice to which I believe I have a right, 
 I shall know what it becomes me to do."
 
 220 JULES GREW. 
 
 The next day he resigned, and held to his resignation, although but 
 twenty-one votes were cast against him. 
 
 On Jan. 30, 1879, he was elected president of the republic by a 
 joint convention of the senate and assembly. In a body consisting of 
 seven hundred and thirteen members, he received five hundred and 
 sixty-three votes ; and there is reason to believe that this vote fairly 
 represented the state of parties in France. 
 
 As president, he has maintained his character of modesty, modera- 
 tion, and simplicity. He has made no epigrams, committed no bril- 
 liancy, avoided pageants and "progresses," and kept close to the 
 business of his office. 
 
 In his bearing, in the daily routine of his life, and in the arrange- 
 ment of his house, he is like a president of the United States, but 
 with this difference : he gives more time than our presidents usually 
 do to rest and social pleasures. 
 
 He has a beautiful garden, in which he spends much time in sum- 
 mer, and where he often retires for quiet conversation with his minis- 
 ters. He will have his game of chess every afternoon, and rarely 
 misses his ride in the afternoon, accompanied by his wife and daughter. 
 
 An old friend relates that his favorite spot in his garden is a little 
 lake wherein are some ducks, which the president is fond of feeding 
 and watching. When he is puzzled what answer to make to an impor- 
 tant question, he strolls down to his beloved duck-pond, and, while he 
 feeds his favorites with crumbs of bread, thinks over the business in 
 hand. 
 
 President GreVy is now seventy years of age. So far as we can 
 judge from this distance, he enjoys the confidence of his countrymen 
 in a high degree. 
 
 No ruler in Europe has a more difficult office to fill than he, and 
 nothing saves him in it but sheer virtue. If he serves out successfully 
 and happily the remaining three years of his term, and leaves his place 
 unimpaired to a successor, it will be because of his sincerity, his firm- 
 ness, his quiet, Washington-like way of using all his powers, with the 
 single object of doing the best thing possible in the circumstances.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 By JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 I HAVE known few things in the world more delightful than to 
 meet people who have conversed with Sir Walter Scott. It has 
 been my good fortune to make the acquaintance of several persons 
 who lived near the great man, and were on intimate terms with him 
 for years. To hear them describe the traits in his character, imitate 
 the tones of his sympathetic voice, and dwell upon his genius, was 
 indeed something to delight in. 
 
 One of his old Edinburgh friends, the excellent Adam Black, told 
 me, that when Scott came stumping along the road with his cane and 
 his dogs, and raised his cheery voice of greeting, it seemed as if his 
 merry laugh cleared the whole air, and Nature herself rejoiced to have 
 him abroad amid her glories. Mr. Black declared him to be the best- 
 humored man that ever lived, — a man whose sympathy was always 
 ready, and whose kindness was enduring. 
 
 One of his contemporaries said it was impossible to decide whether 
 he had the clearest head or the soundest heart in all Scotland. How 
 they loved him on Tweed-side, we may gather from his son-in-law's 
 beautiful anecdote of the poor music-master who offered Scott all his 
 savings when the great novelist fell into pecuniary embarrassment. 
 
 It was a thing to be remembered, to hear Washington Irving dis- 
 course of Scott. To the end of his life, our own charming writer of 
 "The Sketch-Book " could not speak of his friend without enthusiasm. 
 How kind the author of "Waverley" was to the timid young Ameri- 
 can, when Scott received him, in 1817, at Abbotsford ! 
 
 "The glorious old minstrel," said Irving, "came limping (for he 
 was very lame) to the gate, took me by the hand, and we were friends 
 in a moment. I cannot express to you my delight in his character 
 and manners. He was a sterling, golden-hearted old worthy, full of
 
 222 S/J? WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 the joyousness of youth ; and his deportment towards his family, his 
 neighbors, his domestics, the very dogs and cats, I can never forget. 
 Every thing that came within his influence seemed to catch a beam of 
 that sunshine which played around his heart. He entered into every 
 passing scene and passing pleasure with the intent and simple enjoy- 
 ment of a child. Nothing seemed too high or remote for the grasp 
 of his mind, and nothing too trivial for the kindness and pleasantry 
 of his spirit." 
 
 People who died prior to the 7th of July, 18 14, were unfortunate 
 in one respect, if no other ; for on that day was published the first of 
 the " Waverley " romances. A world without Scott's novels in it must 
 have been rather a lean place to live in, surely ; and we can never quite 
 estimate the dulness and vacuity of a globe which existed before that 
 immortal story-teller was born into it. 
 
 Mr. Rufus Choate told me he well remembered seeing, when a 
 youth, a bookseller in Salem one morning hang up a show-bill outside 
 his shop-door, on which was printed, in large letters, " This day pub- 
 lished a New Novel, 'Waverley,' or 'Tis Sixty Years Since." And an 
 old lady in Philadelphia once described the intense enthusiasm the 
 coming out of those novels produced in that city. She said she re- 
 membered, when a child, seeing a woman rush into a shop, where, in 
 those days, they sold every thing, and hearing her cry out, in an 
 excited tone, " Give me ' Peveril of the Peak ' and two candles as quick 
 as possible ! " 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's boyhood has been most pleasantly described by 
 himself, and is full of interest. When only a year and a half old, a 
 fever deprived him of the use of his right leg ; and he never wholly 
 recovered from the lameness. They carried the little fellow into the 
 country, and tried all sorts of prescribed remedies, hoping to cure the 
 poor boy's malady. 
 
 Among other things, this one he remembered, and often laughed 
 about it in after-life. Whenever a sheep was killed for the use of the 
 family at the farm, little Walter was stripped, and swathed up in the 
 skin, warm from the animal's carcase. Then they laid him down on 
 the parlor-floor, and tried to make him crawl about, in order to get 
 strength into his damaged limb. His grandmother and grandfather 
 were his playfellows in those early days, and used to tell their small 
 grandson stories of Scottish heroes, grave and gay, and amuse him as 
 best they could with old books and songs of the past. When the day 
 was fine, they carried the child out into the air, and laid him down
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 223 
 
 beside an old shepherd among the crags and rocks where the sheep 
 were feeding. 
 
 By degrees, the boy got strength to stand, then to walk, and then 
 to run ; but he never was wholly cured of his lameness. At Bath he 
 lived a year for the benefit of the waters, and it was there he first 
 learned to read at a dame's school. I think his lameness gave him 
 many hours of leisure within doors which he might not have had if 
 his limb had been sound. At any rate, he devoured books at a rapid 
 rate, and early became on fire for deeds of chivalry. He read with 
 avidity every thing he could lay his hands upon in the form of history 
 and poetry ; and, when some odd volumes of Shakspeare first fell in 
 his way, he read the plays with a kind of rapture, sitting up half- 
 dressed, and rapidly perusing them by the light of a midnight fire when 
 the family had retired to bed. 
 
 As he grew older, a benevolent old man, who owned a library, 
 recommended him to read " Ossian " and "Spenser;" and these books 
 excited him to a wonderful degree. All this time he was a scholar in 
 the High School of Edinburgh, getting into his head as much Latin and 
 Greek as he had room for. Soon he became inspired by the beauties 
 of the natural scenery on the banks of the Tweed and the Teviot, 
 and this early worship of the beautiful in God's world never deserted 
 him. 
 
 After he left college, and his father had entered him a student at 
 law, he began to compose legendary romances, and stirring ballads, 
 which he repeated with much applause to a knot of cronies who were 
 never tired of listening to Watty Scott, as they called the young man. 
 Lame as he was, he was a great walker in those days, and frequently 
 accomplished thirty miles a day in visiting ruins and old battle-fields. 
 Wandering over the field of Bannockburn gave him exquisite pleas- 
 ure ; and he explored many an old castle with James Ramsay, his 
 fellow law-apprentice. Sir Walter lamented, all his life long, that he 
 had not studied more thoroughly the essentials of a good education, 
 and often said he had neglected his school advantages in early youth. 
 But, during his pupilage, he certainly learned many things worth 
 knowing. 
 
 When Walter was a. boy of fifteen, Robert Burns, the bard of Scot- 
 land, came up to Edinburgh for a first visit to the capital. Young 
 Scott would have given the world to speak with Burns, he so loved his 
 poetry, and so honored the man ; and, at last, his great desire was 
 gratified. Burns came to Professor Ferguson's one day when Scott
 
 224 •£/» WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 and some half-dozen other youngsters were present. An engraving of 
 a dead soldier in the snow, with his dog by his side, and his widow and 
 child watching near, was handed about among the company. Under 
 the picture were some lines descriptive of the sad scene. 
 
 Burns was so affected by the picture that he shed tears, and asked 
 who was the author of the lines. Nobody remembered them but the 
 boy, Walter Scott ; and he whispered the author's name to a friend 
 standing near, who informed Burns. The poet turned, and looked 
 kindly at the knowing lad ; and Scott remembered that look all his 
 life. 
 
 Walter Scott is indeed a literature in himself. His genius throws 
 a lustre on the art of story-telling, and renders fiction a boon to the 
 human race. His imagination had a range of eight centuries to unfold 
 itself in, and he roamed through them with a masterful power and 
 beauty. No good reader ever outgrows Sir Walter. Once take him 
 to your heart, and there is no parting company with him after that. 
 In age he will be just as fresh as he was to you in childhood ; and you 
 will never tire of his delightful companionship, or have a misunder- 
 standing with him. 
 
 Lockhart's description of Sir Walter's last hours, in the year 1832, 
 once read can never be forgotten. He says, — 
 
 "As I was dressing on the morning of Monday the 17th of September, Nicol- 
 son came into my room, and told me that his master had awoke in a state of com- 
 posure and consciousness, and wished to see me immediately. I found him entirely 
 himself, though in the last stage of feebleness. . . . ' Lockhart,' he said, ' I may have 
 but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good man — be virtuous — be religious 
 — be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie 
 here.' 
 
 "About half-past one p.m., on the 21st of September, Sir Walter breathed his 
 last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day, so warm that every 
 window was wide open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most deli- 
 cious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly 
 audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT'S HOME. 
 
 By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 IT is a long trip from London to Edinburgh ; but, if you take the 
 Flying Scotchman, you do it in ten hours. The Flying Scotchman 
 is the fast express, which makes only three or four stops between the 
 two cities, and goes, I believe, at the rate of sixty miles an hour. It 
 does, indeed, seem like flying. A bird on rapid wing ftiust get much 
 such glimpses of the world about him as we got, tearing on through 
 the country that long day. 
 
 We reached Edinburgh in the evening. The friend we were to 
 visit was glad of this ; for he was an American of Scotch descent, and 
 had enough of a Scotchman's pride in Edinburgh to want us first to 
 see " The Castle " in all its morning glory. Everybody talks of the 
 castle when you are in Edinburgh. You cannot forget it if you would ; 
 for it dominates every thing, and it is the heart of every thing. 
 
 I think no city in the world can possibly be more picturesque than 
 Edinburgh. Its site and structure combine to make it unique. It is 
 a city of hills and valleys. Castle Rock, as the site of the castle is 
 called, is some seven hundred feet in circumference ; and on three 
 sides it is just bare rock, so precipitous that foot of man could hardly 
 scale it. Accessible only on one side, a place more perfectly adapted 
 for a fortress can scarcely be imagined. 
 
 The old gray castle itself is one of the most picturesque of build- 
 ings. Whether you see it at sunrise, at high noon, in the tender twi- 
 light time, or when the pale moon visits it, it is alike beautiful ; but I 
 think the view of it which will linger longest in my memory is that 
 I had one afternoon when I sat on a green bank in the Princes' Street 
 Gardens, and listened to the band of the Duchess of Sutherland's 
 Own, as a favorite regiment of Highlanders is called. The sun sank 
 lower and lower as the band discoursed its sweet, shrill music, until at
 
 226 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT'S HOME. 
 
 last the valley was in shadow, while all the sunset glow and glory 
 rested on the gray old castle, making its windows flame like opals. 
 
 I seem to remember Edinburgh and the region round it in a series 
 of pictures. Every thing about it is picturesque. The buildings are 
 all of stone, — a fine-grained sandstone, which is quite equal in beauty 
 to marble. It is susceptible of the utmost delicacy of carving ; and it 
 so well resists the effects of time and the weather, as to retain longer 
 than almost any other stone its freshness of aspect. 
 
 Arthur's Seat seemed to me the most beautiful of the many hills 
 
 around Edinburgh. The 
 Queen climbed to the 
 top of it in a former 
 visit ; and, if she could, 
 why not we ? So we 
 left our carriage at the 
 base of the hill, and 
 struggled on and up. 
 Arthur's Seat is a great 
 rock at the very top of 
 the hill, in which you 
 can trace a sort of fan- 
 tastic resemblance to a 
 chair. I sat there on 
 the jagged old rock, and 
 looked forth with such 
 a swelling at my heart 
 as I cannot at all put 
 into words. I have sel- 
 dom, if ever, seen a 
 view at once so extended and so lovely. Edinburgh lay spread out 
 there in all its stately beauty. Other more distant hills confronted 
 you with their solemn peace. Off at one side was Leith, the seaport 
 of Edinburgh, and beyond it the sea, — blue, bright, illimitable. It 
 was worth a much harder climb to look upon such a scene. 
 
 I suppose no pilgrim would go to Edinburgh without extending his 
 pilgrimage to Abbotsford, and to Dryburgh, and Melrose Abbey. The 
 house where Scott was born has been pointed out to you in Edin- 
 burgh. You have seen his monument there in the Princes' Street 
 Gardens, where he is raised on a pedestal of triumph, surrounded by 
 scenes and characters from his works. But these are nothing to com- 
 
 Edinburgh Castl
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT'S HOME. 
 
 227 
 
 pare in interest to the house he himself built, and in which he passed 
 the last and most brilliant years of his life. 
 
 We went from Edinburgh by train, stopped at Melrose Station, and 
 then drove to Abbotsford. One wonders very much at the great nov- 
 elist's choice of a location for his noble and stately mansion. It is 
 by no means a commanding, or even a picturesque, site ; but to Sir 
 Walter, who was a pas- 
 sionate antiquary, the 
 grounds were interest- 
 ing as being a reputed 
 haunt of Thomas the 
 Rhymer, and contain- 
 ing various Caledonian 
 antiquities; but to other 
 people they must have 
 seemed tame and bleak 
 and uninviting enough, 
 these grounds, until Sir 
 Walter set his splen- 
 did house there, and 
 made them one of the 
 shrines of the world for 
 all the English-speak- 
 ing pilgrims of the future. 
 
 It has been called "a romance 
 in stone and lime," this gray man- 
 sion, with its strange combinations of 
 various styles of architecture, its lofty 
 arched gateway, its towers, its projecting win- 
 dows, and hanging turrets, its bold gables, and its 
 numerous and sometimes fantastic decorations. 
 The entrance-hall is a magnificent apartment, 
 about forty feet in length. Its floor is a mosaic 
 of black and white marble from the Hebrides. Its walls are panelled 
 with richly carved oak, and tastefully hung with ancient armor. The 
 dining-room has a wonderful black-oak roof and a fine collection of 
 pictures, and it is the apartment in which Sir Walter died. The 
 drawing-room is cased with cedar, and furnished with beautiful antique 
 chairs of ebony, presented to Sir Walter by King George IV. 
 
 The most interesting room of all is the library. It is the largest 
 
 Home of Sir Walter Scott.
 
 228 " SIR WALTER SCOTT'S HOME. 
 
 of all the rooms, measuring fifty feet by sixty. Its roof is of richly 
 carved oak, modelled after Roslin and Melrose. Its books number at 
 least twenty thousand volumes, many of them extremely rare and 
 valuable. They are placed in carved oaken cases, under lock and key. 
 How we did long to turn over some of their leaves ! But it was no 
 use longing. Among the adornments of the room are Chantrey's bust 
 of Scott, a copy of the Stratford bust of Shakspeare, a silver urn pre- 
 sented by Lord Byron, an ebony writing-desk presented by a Royal 
 George, and two beautifully carved arm-chairs presented by the Pope. 
 
 The tall Scotchman who conducted us about, told us not one thing 
 in the library had been changed since Sir Walter left it. We felt that 
 it was a time to be very enthusiastic ; but how could we, when there 
 were, perhaps, twenty visitors in all, crowding, and trying to look over 
 each other's heads, and the "braw Hielandmon," in the midst of us, 
 was shouting out his information at the top of his strained, high- 
 pitched, monotonous voice ? 
 
 There was much more room for emotion at Dryburgh Abbey, 
 whither we drove immediately on leaving Abbotsford. At Dryburgh 
 Abbey Sir Walter is buried, and I think there could be no lovelier 
 resting-place in all this world. At Dryburgh our little party of three 
 was quite alone. No guide persecuted us. We left our carriage, and 
 crossed the little foot-bridge over the Tweed, and then walked through 
 the long, leafy lanes to the old abbey. Oh, what a beautiful old place it 
 is ! The portions of the abbey which remain are of the rarest architec- 
 tural perfection. There is a wonderful rose-window, round which the 
 ivy had grown, till the window seems framed in the green leafage. 
 St. Mary's aisle, where is the tomb of Sir Walter, is the most perfect 
 portion remaining. But it seemed to me that the abbey, in its prime, 
 must have been far less interesting than in its picturesque and pathetic 
 decay. 
 
 Melrose Abbey was much more perfect, but for me had less charm. 
 Dryburgh is remote from all the stir of life, in a sylvan solitude. 
 Melrose is in a little town, near a rattling, noisy railway station ; and 
 commonplace houses crowd thickly around it. It is, however, a vision 
 of architectural beauty. Do you remember how Sir Walter wrote of 
 it in "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" ? 
 
 " If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT'S HOME. 229 
 
 When the broken arches are black in night, 
 
 And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 
 
 When the cold light's uncertain shower 
 
 Streams on the ruined central tower; 
 
 When buttress and buttress, alternately, 
 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
 
 When silver edges the imagery, 
 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 
 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, 
 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 
 Then view St. David's ruined pile ; 
 
 And, home returning, soothly swear, 
 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! " 
 
 No doubt, Sir Walter was right, and beautiful Melrose is far more 
 impressive when the sounds of surrounding life are still, and the moon 
 shadows and softens surrounding objects ; but, as it is, it is, even in 
 its decay, a most exquisite specimen of Gothic architecture in its 
 noblest and best conception.
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 By E. P. WHIPPLE. 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY has been one of the Forces of the 
 present generation. He literally pitched heart-foremost, if not 
 head-foremost, into all the social, scientific, and political problems, 
 thoughtfully discussed by the more careful thinkers of the time, as a 
 kind of "free lance," committed from the start to a championship of 
 the emotional side of every question which his calmer contemporaries 
 were inclined to consider from its reasonable side. 
 
 If the difficulties which trouble all thinking-men in their endeavors 
 to advance the human race could be overcome by gushes of philan- 
 thropic sentiment, Kingsley would have rapidly risen to be the first 
 man of his time. In his early books, he opposed all the established 
 principles of social and political economy, and made " good will to 
 men " to consist in favoring those economical fallacies, which, in the 
 end, produce "ill will to men." 
 
 The same vehement passions which urged him at first to violate 
 those established laws which are the slow but sure conditions of the 
 welfare of humanity, made him, at the end, a defender of what may 
 be called retrogression as opposed to progress. He lived long enough 
 to assail almost every intelligent practical measure intended to advance 
 the cause he really cherished in his heart. 
 
 He became, owing to the absence of clear reason as a guide to his 
 conduct, an earnest supporter of Eyre, the governor of the British 
 Colony of Jamaica, on account of the "energy" he displayed in his 
 senseless crusade of murder and massacre against the unoffending 
 negroes of that island, on a mere pretence of their disloyalty ; and he 
 was one of those prominent Englishmen, especially loved and honored 
 in the free States of America, — owing to the philanthropic element 
 which inspired their many books, — who still took the Southern side 
 
 2 3°
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 231 
 
 in our great war of the Rebellion. From youth to age his sensibil- 
 ities and impulses predominated over his learning and intelligence ; 
 though, as his works plainly show, he had a large share, both of intelli- 
 gence and learning. His life, edited by his widow, is one of the most 
 popular biographies which have appeared during the past fifty years ; 
 but it contains hardly a single opinion which a trained economist or 
 statesman would admit without large qualifications. 
 
 John Stuart Mill, for example, though a radical, could never, in his 
 boyhood, have gone so far in radicalism as Kingsley did in his early 
 manhood ; but Mill was both a reasoner and a reasonable being : and 
 Kingsley's strange and sudden deviations from the logical results of 
 his early passionate convictions must have impressed Mill with a kind 
 of compassionate contempt. Yet Mill would have never doubted that 
 Kingsley was as honest in the freaks of feeling which made him a tory, 
 as in the freaks of feeling which made him a socialist. 
 
 The real lesson taught by Charles Kingsley's life is this : that he 
 was the most impulsive, the most inconsistent, the most passionate, 
 and, at heart, the most conscientious, of human beings. It is this fact 
 that makes the account of his school and college life so interesting. 
 Young students will find in it much to inspire them with a desire to 
 emulate his virtues ; but his solid virtues were so bound up with his 
 fascinating defects, that whoever emulates him must take care not to 
 imitate in whole what is only valuable in part. 
 
 Kingsley never arrived at intellectual and moral manhood. He was 
 a boy, — a grand, a glorious boy, when he first appeared as a dogmatic 
 man, assuming to direct English thought ; and a boy, a splendid boy, 
 he remained to the last year of his life. All his vagaries of opinion 
 and sentiment, the strange inconsistencies of his career, all the 
 sense and all the nonsense which alternately shocked or attracted his 
 contemporaries, were properly to be referred to the plain fact that he 
 never became a mature man. All the learning he acquired, all the 
 experience of life he accumulated through long years, all his contacts 
 and collisions with the minds of friends who represented the most ad. 
 vanced intellect of the age, never could cure him of the boyish defect 
 of substituting impulse for intelligence, even in the consideration of 
 those complicated problems in which intelligence should manifestly 
 be the supreme guide and arbiter. 
 
 His father was an excellent clergyman of the old English stamp. 
 He was what is called a "hunting-parson," a man of sound religious 
 sentiments and principles, who did not think "following the hounds"
 
 232 CHARLES K1NGSLEY. 
 
 at all disqualified him to be a preacher and an example of righteous- 
 ness and a consoler of death-beds. " Muscular Christianity " was pal- 
 pably the atmosphere into which the young Kingsley was born. But 
 a certain sense and impulse of right characterized the boy from his 
 cradle, accompanied with that moral fastidiousness which feeds juvenile 
 self-importance. He wrote sermons at an early age. Indeed, while 
 his mind and character were in the process of formation, he had be- 
 come infected with the moral disease of talking as if he loved every- 
 body, and of acting as if he loved only a chosen few. 
 
 The slightest contrast of character in the boys with whom he 
 played and studied, quickly roused his antipathies. A lover of the 
 whole human race in the abstract, he still found hardly a companion 
 with whom he could individually sympathize. He was a childish type 
 of some of our modern philanthropists, whose comprehensive, benev- 
 olent feelings include all the inhabitants of America, Europe, Asia, and 
 Africa, but who practically belong to that class of conservative citizens 
 who are most ready to call in the constable to kick a common beggar 
 from their inhospitable doorsteps. 
 
 Shy in behavior toward his fellow-students, Kingsley, as a boy, still 
 recognized them to a certain extent ; that is, he condescended to as- 
 sure them of his superiority to them all, because, while he was their 
 equal in Latin and Greek, he had, before the age of eight, developed 
 a taste for the poetical aspects of Nature, which they did not feel ; 
 and had acquired some knowledge of botany and geology, of which 
 they knew nothing. This conceit would have been quickly knocked 
 out of him had he gone to one of the public schools of England, but 
 his private tutors unconsciously fostered it. They felt that they had 
 to do with a boy of genius, but their management of him was not 
 judicious. The Rev. R. C. Powles admits that Charles, while under 
 his care, was not popular among his schoolmates. " He did not con- 
 sciously snub those who knew him ; but a good deal of unconscious 
 snubbing went on, all the more resented, perhaps, because it was un- 
 conscious." 
 
 Up to the time he went to college, his instructors, without knowing 
 it, educated him in self-will ; and, when he entered Cambridge Univer- 
 sity, he was soon distinguished for the recklessness with which he 
 doubted every thing which the orthodox professors believed, and the 
 fierceness with which he threw himself into fishing, boating, hunting, 
 driving, boxing, fencing, shooting, and field-sports generally. He still 
 contrived that his wildest recreations should assist him in his studies
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 233 
 
 in natural history, and his quickness of apprehension enabled him to 
 keep fairly up with his fellow-students in the classics and mathematics : 
 but his mind, bright as it was, was in a state of anarchy during his 
 whole university life ; and the anarchy of his mind was fairly repre- 
 sented in the anarchy of his character. 
 
 Charles Kingsley. 
 
 The only thing that saved him from ruin was the force and purity 
 of his emotional nature. He loved his father and mother, his brother 
 and sisters, dearly. He wished to do nothing which would bring sor- 
 row to them by bringing disgrace on him. He therefore kept himself 
 morally upright ; but of intellectual uprightness, of that fine mental 
 conscientiousness which characterizes thinkers of the first class, and
 
 234 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 which ranks a comforting sophism in the class of serious offences, he 
 never appears to have formed an adequate idea. 
 
 It is pitiable to state that all his theological doubts were solved, 
 not by patient thinking and investigation, not even by deep religious 
 experience and earnest prayer, but by his early love for the young 
 maiden who eventually became his wife. She states that there began, 
 when he was at the age of twenty, " his doubts about the Trinity and 
 other important doctrines. He revolted from what seemed to him 
 the bigotry, cruelty, and quibbling of the Athanasian Creed, — that 
 very creed which in after-years was his stronghold." We are left 
 to surmise that all his doubts on the most awful questions which can 
 exercise the faculties, and test the strength of a vigorous mind, were 
 practically decided by a girl of eighteen, operating, by the magnetic 
 power of love, on the affections of a rash and "green " youth of twenty, 
 not yet even a graduate of the university, the very conditions of ad- 
 mission to which he had presumptuously disregarded. 
 
 Enough has been said of the doubtful side of Kingsley's character, 
 and his career at school and college. It is pleasant to turn to its 
 fascinating side. The boy had, first of all, courage. He never flinched 
 from danger, he never showed any weak sensibility to pain. In the 
 playground he never hesitated at attempting feats of skill and strength 
 which involved the risk of broken bones. In his thirteenth year he 
 climbed, three or four days in succession, a high tree, to take an egg 
 from a hawk's nest. On the fifth day, it happened that the mother 
 hawk was in her nest. She attacked Charles, both with beak and 
 claws. He retained his self-possession, though cruelly punished for 
 his intrusion. An ordinary boy, thus surprised, would have dropped 
 at once from the tree, and perhaps broken his neck. Kingsley came 
 down as coolly and steadily as he had gone up, though the blood was 
 streaming from his lacerated hands as he descended. 
 
 On another occasion, when he was troubled with a sore finger, he 
 remembered that somebody had told him it might be cured by cautery ; 
 and, becoming his own physician, he heated a poker red-hot by the 
 schoolroom fire, and calmly applied it two or three times until the cure 
 was effected. 
 
 In his earliest boyhood days his father was rector of a church in 
 a fishing-town. This town (Clovelly) was something like Gloucester, 
 in Massachusetts, as far as regards its tragedies of shipwreck. De- 
 lighting, as Charles did, in the wind and waves, he had early experience 
 of the human woe which often accompanied the storms ; and in after-
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 235 
 
 years he described some of the calamities he had witnessed as a boy, 
 with a vividness of imaginative vision which shows how indelibly the 
 incidents were stamped on his memory. 
 
 Thus he speaks of a vessel blown by a storm : " on a slab of rock, 
 rising slowly on every surge, to drop again with a piteous crash as 
 the wave fell back from the cliff, and dragged the roaring pebbles 
 back with it under the coming wall of foam. You have heard of ships, 
 at the last moment, crying aloud like living things in agony ? I heard 
 it then, as the stumps of her masts rocked and reeled in her, and every 
 plank and joint strained and screamed with the dreadful tension." 
 
 And afterwards he described another scene : " when the gray 
 columns of water-spouts came stalking across the waves before the 
 northern gale, overwhelming the tiny herring-boats ; and the beach 
 beside the town was covered with shrieking women and old men, cast- 
 ing themselves on the pebbles in fruitless agonies of prayer, as corpse 
 after corpse was swept up at the feet of wives and children." 
 
 So frequent were such calamities, that Kingsley said, a few years 
 after, that hardly one of the playmates of his boyhood survived. 
 "One poor little fellow's face," he writes, "starts out of the depths 
 of memory as fresh as ever, my especial pet and bird's-nesting com- 
 panion as a boy, — a little, delicate, precocious, large-brained child, who 
 might have written books some day if he had been a gentleman's son ; 
 but, when his father's ship was wrecked, they found him, left alone, of 
 all the crew, just as he had been lashed to the rigging by loving and 
 dying hands, but cold and stiff, the little soul beaten out of him by the 
 cruel waves before it had time to show what growth there might have 
 been in it." 
 
 Such early experiences as these must have awakened and deepened 
 Kingsley's sympathy with his race. The intensity with which he 
 describes them proves that they had originally impressed his imagina- 
 tion as well as his heart, and the imagination never forgets. 
 
 It is also to be said, in respect to his university life, that the same 
 physical energy which made him neglect his studies for fishing and 
 field-sports, was converted into mental and moral energy when he had 
 reason to fear, that, at the end of his residence in Cambridge, his rank 
 as a scholar would be very low. He condensed the results of studies 
 which should have been spread over three years, into six months of 
 continuous and desperate work. He came out, in the examination for 
 honors, first class in classics, and "Senior opt" in mathematics; but 
 he did all this at the expense of a strain, both on his mind and body,
 
 236 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 which at the time threatened serious consequences to his health, and 
 which would have driven an ordinary student, who did not possess his 
 quickness of perception, into imbecility or insanity. 
 
 " My brains," he wrote at the time he was preparing for his exami- 
 nation, " are in such an overworked and be-Greeked state, that I can- 
 not answer for always talking sense just now. ... I read myself ill 
 this week, and have been ordered to shut up every book till the exami- 
 nation ; and, in fact, the last three weeks in which I had to make a rally 
 from the violent exertion of the mathematical tripos, have been spent in 
 agonies of pain with leeches on my head, just when I ought to have been 
 straining every nerve." 
 
 "Violent exertion ! " That is the impression which Kingsley's books 
 and clerical work convey equally to the reader of his works, and to the 
 reader of his biography. He had no repose in that life of his, — espe- 
 cially none of that repose which comes from continuous and compre- 
 hensive thought. He read the book of nature and the book of life by 
 flashes of lightning, not by steady sunlight. One wonders, that after 
 reaching what are called "the years of discretion," but which, with 
 him, were always "years of indiscretion," some kind wife or friend had 
 not always been ready to apply " leeches to his head " when his blood 
 was palpably getting the mastery of his brain. His intellectual and 
 moral life was a series of "violent exertions." 
 
 The young student, who may justly admire, and strive to emulate, 
 his earnestness of spirit, and kindness of heart, should also be warned 
 to be proof against all those outbursts of sensibility which Kingsley 
 mistook for principles.
 
 LORD COLERIDGE AND THE ENGLISH 
 LAW COURTS. 
 
 By W. L. WOODROFFE. 
 
 A CHANGE has come over the position of bench and bar in 
 England in the course of the last few years. 
 
 At Westminster, where questions of common law were tried, there 
 used to be three different courts, — the Queen's Bench, the Common 
 Pleas, and the Exchequer; and each of these had five judges and a 
 chief. The Queen's Bench chief was the Lord Chief Justice of Eng- 
 land ; the other two were, respectively, Lord Chief Justice of the 
 Common Pleas, and Lord Chief Baron. 
 
 Such had been the constitution for many years, and thus we had 
 three great judicial officers of almost an ordinate rank; though, as pre- 
 cedence had to be settled, the degrees were in the order in which they 
 have been placed. Now, however, there is but one chief of the com- 
 mon-law division, and he has the title of Lord Chief Justice of Eng- 
 land. The post is filled by Lord Coleridge, who certainly is not likely 
 to let it suffer in dignity. As he was recently in the United States, 
 some details of his life will be interesting. He is a grand-nephew of 
 the poet, and is of the same Devonshire family, — tall, very bald, and 
 with an inveterate habit of blushing. It would be an exaggeration to 
 say of him that he is a popular man. He is too satirical, and he seems 
 to lack heartiness. He is in politics a Liberal, and was peculiarly ob- 
 noxious to Mr. Disraeli when the latter was in office. No saying of 
 Lord Beaconsfield's was more often quoted in England than one in 
 which he described Sir John Coleridge's eloquence as "a stream of 
 silvery mediocrity." 
 
 Never at fault for a word, he never selects a wrong one, and yet 
 seldom selects a strong one. There is no successful lawyer at the 
 
 237
 
 238 LORD COLERIDGE. 
 
 English bar who has said fewer good things in the way of wit, and yet 
 he has said no silly things. 
 
 He was always a safe advocate, and sometimes a very successful 
 one. In breach of promise of marriage cases he was peculiarly good. 
 He had an insidious way of getting damaging admissions from a wit- 
 ness who had no idea that he was examining him from a hostile point 
 of view. He had a beautiful, silvery voice : and his way of holding up 
 a love-letter, and reading it, and then laughing at it, was quite an 
 accomplishment ; and he was never tired of repeating it with success. 
 
 He takes his seat at Westminster as president of the court, and 
 wears over his scarlet and ermine the collar, which, from the days when 
 Gascoigne, Lord Chief Justice, rebuked the Prince of Wales in the 
 reign of Henry IV., has been one of the recognized badges of the 
 Chief Justice of England. Amongst the other judges who sit beside 
 him, one of the most prominent is Sir William Grove. He is one of 
 the rare instances of a man who is great as a lawyer, and great also 
 at something else. There have not been many such. Law is a very 
 jealous mistress, and he who would win her favors must devote himself 
 to her. 
 
 I think the only recent judge who had a reputation for any thing 
 else than law was Talfourd, whose play of " Ion " still survives. Sir 
 William Grove was eminent in the scientific world before he took his 
 seat on the bench, and his "Treatise on the Formation of Forces" is 
 a classic amongst scientific men. The questions that come before an 
 English judge are so various, that it is well they should all be some- 
 thing else than mere lawyers. Old Baron Martin delighted in any 
 thing connected with horses or horse-racing. His eye would brighten 
 at the mention of terms which to other men meant very little. So 
 now, whenever there is a scientific case, questions of patents or ma- 
 chinery, Sir William Grove delights to take what would puzzle many 
 of his brothers. 
 
 The contrast between him and Lord Coleridge is very remarkable. 
 The lord chief justice has a high opinion of his office, is always very dig- 
 nified and very precise. Every hair in his wig is cared for, and he is as 
 particular about his lace ruffles and cuffs as a young girl. Mr. Justice 
 Grove is very untidy and unmethodical, always in a hurry, and gener- 
 ally late. One morning, while the judges were in their robing-room 
 previous to opening court, Sir William had not yet come — as usual. 
 A fresh appointment had just been made to the bench, and it was not 
 a popular one. The new judge had the reputation of being a toady,
 
 LORD COLERIDGE. 
 
 2 39 
 
 who lived in the perfume of aristocratic names, — a rather vulgar man 
 with a great worship for a peer. In came Sir William, hot and angry, 
 and muttering. He could not find some notes he had made ; his wig 
 was awkwardly on his head ; he was angry, as all the others were, at 
 
 the last appointment. 
 
 "What is the matter, Grove?" said 
 Lord Coleridge. 
 Then Sir William began to fuss 
 
 and to fume, and to r ~ 
 use rather strong lan- 
 guage about the new 
 judge. Lord Coleridge 
 listened with a great deal 
 of interest and sympathy; 
 and, when the angriest 
 sentences were finished, — 
 
 " Please repeat them all 
 over again, Sir William," 
 he said. " I never use 
 strong language myself, Lord coiendge. 
 
 but will you use it for me ? " 
 
 Another of the judges who were on the same bench was Sir 
 Henry Hawkins. He was one of the greatest advocates we have had 
 in this generation, and perfectly matchless as a cross-examiner. No 
 one could break down a witness as he could, or so adroitly handle a 
 jury. It was amusing to see him pitted against Sergeant Ballantyne, 
 who is a man of considerably more ability, but careless, lazy, and apa- 
 thetic. These two men were always scoring off one another. Perhaps 
 the best thing Ballantyne ever said was to Hawkins. The latter had
 
 240 LORD COLERJDC 
 
 the reputation — at the bar, at all events — of being very fond of money. 
 His fees were always large ; and, in a certain class of cases, he could 
 command any price he liked. Ballantyne met Hawkins one day hur- 
 rying across Westminster Hall from one court to another." 
 
 "There you go, Hawkins, scraping the money together as usual, 
 raking in the guineas by the thousand, giving yourself no time or 
 peace or enjoyment. What is the use of it all ? You can't take the 
 guineas away with you when you die ; and, even if you did, they d 
 melt ! " 
 
 We have but few sergeants now left at the bar, and Sergeant Bal- 
 lantyne is certainly the most eminent of them. They are dying off 
 one by one, and the order will soon disappear. You know them by a 
 little black wafer on the tops of their wigs, and this is called the coif. 
 The institution is very old and very singular. In the early days of 
 English history, renegade clerks would practise in the secular courts 
 as advocates or judges, though the canon prohibited them from doing 
 so. This was, of course, at a time when learning was almost exclu- 
 sively centred in the clergy. But then the tonsure was the inevitable 
 badge of the clerk ; and, if it were visible, his secret would be 
 detected. 
 
 So the coif, or kerchief, was placed under the wig, just at the spot 
 where the tonsure, if it existed, might occur. And this coif always 
 remained the peculiar appendage of a sergeant ; and it is laid down as 
 one of his rights, that he may wear the coif in the presence of the 
 sovereign, and even "when talking with the King's Majesty." The 
 only rights at all resembling this of a sergeant are those claimed by 
 the family of De Courcy, Barons of Hinsdale, to remain covered in 
 the presence of the sovereign ; and the singular privilege of the Duke 
 of Medina Celi, — as hereditary defender of the Faith, — to ride into 
 church with his Jiclmct on. 
 
 But the sergeants are no longer needed, and " Billy Ballantyne " is 
 one of the last of them. Few men have got bigger fees, or given 
 better work for them. The sergeant knows scarcely any law, — that is, 
 of course, as compared with his eminence ; but he knows what is more 
 important, — men and women; and, of all men, he best knows jury- 
 men. Thus he often gets the jury round to his views, and readily puts 
 them in good humor at the beginning of the case. But he does this 
 at the expense of his witness, or, rather, of his adversary's witness. 
 
 The wit is not always of a very high order, but it wins the verdict. 
 A very pompous witness was in the box, with quite a florid order of
 
 LORD COLERIDGE. 241 
 
 face, a hat with a brim as broad as a bishop's in his hand, a great 
 bow-window of a waistcoat upholstered with a heavy cabling of watch- 
 chain, — a most important and imposing looking witness, whose testi- 
 mony seemed to carry the most undeniable weight. 
 
 " You're an auctioneer, I believe ? " said the sergeant, looking at 
 him rather fiercely. 
 
 "I ham," said the other, with great pomp. 
 
 "And a remarkably well-dressed ham you are," said Ballantyne. 
 There was a roar through the court, and all the dignity of that poor 
 auctioneer was crushed. 
 
 Ballantyne recently visited the United States ; and those who saw 
 his slight, spare figure, so young-looking, or heard his drawling voice, 
 with so little fire or force in it, were at a loss to account for the size 
 of the fees or his brief. 
 
 In his palmy days he has got five hundred pounds for cross-exam- 
 ining a few witnesses, and the money was well laid out. I have spoken 
 to witnesses who have been badgered by him in the box ; and they all 
 tell the same story, — that, when he was angry, he was very terrible. 
 He had a wolfish look out of his eye, and a way of balancing his first 
 finger, and calculating the effect of it, that was much more fatal than 
 the bullying cross-examination of other counsel. 
 
 These traits, of course, are not recognized on the platform, where 
 the ease with which he tells a story, and the gleams of humor with 
 which he enlivens it, are the most striking features of his style.
 
 CHARLES H. SPURGEON. 
 
 By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 I WENT, on a pleasant English Sunday, to the morning service at 
 the Metropolitan Tabernacle, to hear Pastor Charles H. Spurgeon. 
 I had previously written to Mr. Spurgeon, expressing my desire to 
 be present, and had received from him sundry tickets of admission, 
 each one in the form of a small, square envelope, with a picture of the 
 Tabernacle on the outside, and the printed words, — 
 
 "ADMIT THE BEARER. 
 " The person using this Pass is respectfully asked for a contribution towards 
 the work of the Lord, under the superintendence of Pastor C. H. Spurgeon." 
 
 The Tabernacle is "over the river," on what is called "the Surrey 
 side" of London, — a situation far enough removed from fashionable 
 London, but with plenty of life and interest of its own. As we drew 
 near to the place, we perceived crowds on crowds of people, all pro- 
 ceeding in the same direction ; and we streamed with them into the 
 great, wide-open gates of the Metropolitan Tabernacle. 
 
 It is a vast building, of whitish-gray stone. The front has massive 
 Corinthian pillars, and produces a semi-Grecian architectural effect ; 
 but all attempt at ornament or beauty ends with the outside. The 
 tabernacle has twice the seating-capacity of Exeter Hall, where so 
 many vast spring-meetings are held. The whole object of its internal 
 arrangement is to accommodate as many people as possible. Fifty- 
 five hundred can be seated comfortably, while over six thousand can 
 be somehow or other disposed of ; and often, on lecture evenings, over 
 six thousand have paid their shilling apiece for admission. 
 
 The congregation of which we were part, on the 4th of July, 1880, 
 must have numbered considerably over five thousand. I think every 
 seat in the house must have been filled. I could see no vacant space 
 242
 
 CHARLES H. SPURGE ON. 243 
 
 anywhere. To regard this vast sea of attentive faces was one of the 
 sights of a lifetime. 
 
 It is the peculiar construction of this " preaching-house " — to use 
 one of Mr. Spurgeon's expressions — which makes it possible to seat 
 so many. It is a long hall, completely oval in shape, all around which 
 run two immense galleries, supported on strong iron pillars, each with 
 seven rows of seats, rising steeply above each other, like the seats in 
 the gallery of a theatre, so that all can see. Below the lower of these 
 galleries is a platform, with a slight railing around it, and a sofa at the 
 back, where were seated the elders of the church. 
 
 At the front of the platform is a simple table, whereon were piled 
 Mr. Spurgeon's Bible and hymn-books ; and there were two chairs, one 
 of them awaiting Mr. Spurgeon himself, and the other occupied by a 
 man whose office it proved to be to lead the singing. The tabernacle 
 has plain, boarded walls, the lower half painted a dull yellow, the upper 
 half an equally dull green. There is no stained glass, no organ, not a 
 single decoration of any sort. I never was in a place of worship which 
 gave me such a sense of being devoted to the work of the Lord. 
 
 We looked with much interest around the vast congregation as- 
 sembled. The house was densely filled some moments before it was 
 time for Mr. Spurgeon to appear. It was a distinctively w/zfashionable 
 audience, — people as different from those who wear Worth's dresses 
 and the bonnets of Madame Louise, and drive in Hyde Park of a 
 summer afternoon, as if they belonged to another world. But what 
 earnest people these were, who had come together in the great preach- 
 ing-house ! How anxiously expectant were their faces ! They showed 
 by every look that they felt themselves to be attending to life's weight- 
 iest, most momentous, concern. They had left care and business, and 
 all the uses of this world, behind them. Some of them were evidently 
 well-to-do and prosperous ; others as evidently worn and weary, and 
 very poor ; but all were alike in earnest. 
 
 At eleven o'clock Mr. Spurgeon appeared on the platform. He 
 was born on the 19th of June, 1834: therefore he has recently passed 
 his fiftieth birthday. If any one looks for any grandeur, any beauty, 
 any air of command, in this man who has moved so many men, he will 
 be disappointed. Mr. Spurgeon is short and stout, with hair that was 
 dark, but is now iron-gray ; with small, twinkling brown eyes ; and with 
 a cast of features distinctly heavy until some emotion kindles them. 
 He has a strong, powerful head. He wears a full beard, and his short 
 hair stands up from his rather low forehead. There was nothing in
 
 244 CHARLES H. SPURGE ON. 
 
 his aspect in the least to indicate the man who has undoubtedly a 
 larger following, and a larger personal influence, than any preacher in 
 London, perhaps in the world. 
 
 " Let us pray," he said, as he walked to the front of the platform. 
 Hearing the sound of his voice, one began to understand, in part, his 
 power over the hearts of men It is a sweet, rich, flexible voice, with 
 a wonderful carrying capacity. His first prayer was brief and earnest, 
 and extremely simple in phraseology. It gave one a sense of intimacy 
 with God, in which was no irreverence. When the prayer was over, 
 he gave out the forty-second psalm, — an old Scotch version, com- 
 mencing, — 
 
 " Like as the hart for water brooks 
 
 In thirst doth pant and bray, 
 So pants my longing soul, O God ! 
 
 That come to thee I may." 
 
 He read each verse of the psalm separately, .before it was sung. 
 There was something startling in the great, tumultuous outburst of 
 voices. I think that nearly every voice in the congregation was up- 
 lifted. A great wave of praise seemed to rise up and fill the vast hall 
 to its high-arched roof. Next followed the reading and expounding 
 of the fourth chapter of the Gospel of St. John. The speaker dwelt on 
 the tact and delicacy displayed by our Lord in his conversation with 
 the woman of Samaria, — the tenderness which forbore to accuse her. 
 
 The preparatory services had occupied an hour. The sermon com- 
 menced at twelve m., and lasted three-quarters of an hour. I thought 
 John Bunyan might have preached just such a discourse. Mr. Spur- 
 geon's style is admirable, — strong, vigorous Saxon, short sentences, 
 simple in structure, and full of earnestness. Any thing like the ab- 
 sorbed attention of the great audience I have never seen. Some old 
 men were wiping their eyes, and some young women had tears upon 
 their cheeks ; but no one moved ; and sound there was none, except 
 the rich, earnest, far-reaching voice of the speaker. I said there was 
 no sound. I should have excepted the slight, faint rustle, as the 
 congregation turned the leaves of their Bibles, following thus all the 
 references of the speaker. 
 
 It was such a sermon as suited the text, — full of invitation and 
 of encouragement. Very vividly the speaker painted the tortures of 
 thirst, — thirst in the desert, thirst amid far-reaching solitudes of salt 
 sea-waves. He begged those who were athirst to drink. Not to ques- 
 tion their right to the draught, not to think they were not thirsty
 
 CHARLES II. SPURGE ON. 
 
 2 45 
 
 enough to claim it, but only to drink. His illustrations were the sim- 
 plest, homeliest, and most telling that could be imagined. He held 
 the breathless interest of his audience to the very end. 
 
 In his manner and gestures there is no pretence of elegance. In- 
 deed, they are noticeably the reverse of elegant. Sometimes he rested 
 
 one knee upon his chair, presenting the 
 sole of his boot to the inspection of 
 the attentive elders behind him : 
 sometimes he leaned 
 heavily over the 
 railing. His one 
 characteristic 
 was the most 
 intense ear- 
 nestness. 
 
 After the 
 benediction, 
 
 s>K. Mr. Spurgeon retired 
 
 into a little audience- 
 room, whither his elders 
 conducted such persons as were favored with a few moments of private 
 conversation with him. His manner was extremely simple and cordial ; 
 and one quite forgot the plainness of his features, seeing them lighted 
 up with so much kindliness and interest. His day was not yet half 
 over. He was to administer the Lord's Supper in the afternoon, to 
 such people from a distance as could not come in the evening ; and, 
 in the evening, he was to preach again, and celebrate again the Supper 
 of the Lord.
 
 246 CHARLES H. SPURGE ON. 
 
 At fifty Mr. Spurgeon is a very vigorous-looking man, from whom 
 we may hope for many more years of active work. His grandfather, 
 James Spurgeon, born in 1776, preached the gospel until the very end 
 of his life, and died at the age of eighty-seven. His father is also a 
 minister, and resigned in 1876 the pastorate of the nonconformist 
 church in Islington. Mr. Charles Spurgeon himself has been one of 
 the hardest-working men of whom I have ever heard. For more 
 than twenty-two years he has had a new sermon printed every week, 
 and he has often preached twelve times in a week. 
 
 Since 1865 he has been at the head of a monthly magazine, en- 
 titled, "The Sword and the Trowel," which has a circulation of some 
 fifteen thousand copies monthly. In the preface to the third volume 
 of this magazine, the editor says that its publication " led to the found- 
 ing of the Orphanage, and was the foster parent of the College and 
 the Colportage." From the college, of which Mr. Spurgeon is the 
 head, nearly four hundred trained men have already gone forth to enter 
 the ministry of the church. 
 
 In September, 1866, Mr. Spurgeon received a letter from a lady, 
 offering to place at his command the sum of twenty thousand pounds 
 ($100,000) for the purpose of founding an orphanage for fatherless 
 boys. This lady was Mrs. Hillyard, the widow of an English clergy- 
 man, who had left the Church of England, and joined the Baptists. 
 From this generous beginning has grown the Stockwell Orphanage. 
 Two hundred and fifty boys can be accommodated here ; and they are 
 received, I am happy to say, without reference to denominational claims. 
 It is enough that they should be fatherless children, between the ages 
 of six and ten. 
 
 An orphanage which will accommodate an equal number of girls is 
 already commenced. It would be hardly possible to overrate the good 
 which has been accomplished under Mr. Spurgeon's ministry. May he 
 live long to carry out the noble plans which spring from his busy brain 
 and helpful heart ! 
 
 There was one, at least, of his thousands of hearers, on that 4th 
 of July, 1880, who will carry into far-off scenes the memory of that 
 mighty congregation of earnest souls, and the sound of that mellow, 
 far-reaching voice, pleading with sinful men to drink of the Fountain 
 of Living Waters, and be athirst no more.
 
 WILLIAM MACREADY, 
 
 TRAGEDIAN. 
 
 By JAMES PARTON. 
 
 GNE hundred years ago, before the invention of railroads had 
 lessened the importance of provincial towns, almost every place 
 in England of a few thousand inhabitants had its own little theatre. 
 And very little it usually was, with a pit that would hold fifty persons, 
 boxes into which one hundred could be squeezed, and a gallery from 
 which fifty noisy men and boys could get a sight of the stage. Several 
 of these theatres were usually let to one manager, who would take his 
 company from one to another, and, by occasionally running two at once, 
 would manage to keep his actors employed the year round, with some 
 profit to himself. As a good theatre is an extremely expensive insti- 
 tution, it was only in this way that a city of ten thousand inhabitants 
 could ever enjoy theatrical entertainments of respectable quality. 
 
 The lessee and manager of a circuit of theatres in the North of 
 England, at the close of the last century, was William Macready, father 
 of the distinguished tragedian, whose name is familiar to most readers, 
 and whose performances are fresh in the recollection of many. His 
 father was an actor of the old school, very stagey, a slave to tradition, 
 — one of those positive old gentlemen who look back with veneration 
 upon the actors of their youth, and speak slightingly of those of to- 
 day. As a man, he was passionate, obstinate, and tyrannical, having 
 inherited from his Irish ancestors much of their fiery spirit ; but, at 
 the same time, he was a person of good principles and excellent inten- 
 tions, who did his best in his vocation, paid his debts, and kept his 
 word. The mother of the tragedian was one of the kindest, gentlest, 
 and tenderest of women, who loved her children devotedly, and pre- 
 served for them a home to which they ever returned with gladness. 
 
 247
 
 248 William m acre ad y. 
 
 The boy who became the tragedian, Macready, inherited the qual- 
 ities of both his parents. Like his father, he was passionate, obstinate, 
 and self-willed ; like his mother, he was affectionate, generous, and 
 sympathetic ; and the union of these traits, when time had given him 
 some degree of self-control, made a character that was, upon the whole, 
 highly estimable. 
 
 How abominably children were treated seventy-five years ago ! 
 As soon as this boy was three or four years old, he was carried to 
 school to be "got out of the way," and thus was thrown among a 
 crowd of unruly children older than himself, and wholly unsuited to be 
 the companions of an innocent baby. When he was an old man, he 
 used to reflect, as he said, "with sorrow deep and stern," upon the 
 evil influences to which he was then subjected ; and he was filled with 
 "penitential gratitude" for his escape from the depravity of which, as 
 a mere child, he was the daily witness. At the boarding-schools, too, 
 which he afterward attended, the food was not merely inferior, but dis- 
 gusting. The only pleasing recollections of his childhood were of the 
 holidays, when his mother welcomed him home with tears of joy. 
 People then seemed to think that to treat children in that harsh and 
 cruel manner was the best way to prepare them for the troubles of 
 their future life. His father, who had probably himself been treated 
 worse in his own childhood, was, no doubt, fully of this opinion, and 
 appears never to have given a thought to the circumstances which made 
 bitter the days of his offspring. 
 
 From Rugby school, where he received the important part of his 
 education, he was summoned, at the age of sixteen, to assist his father, 
 who had fallen into pecuniary difficulties. He never liked the profes- 
 sion of an actor, even in the day of his brilliant success ; but, finding 
 it necessary to go upon the stage, he made a very successful first 
 appearance at one of his father's theatres in the character of Romeo. 
 Even his father was satisfied with his performance, and, though he 
 avoided giving him much positive encouragement, had high hopes of 
 his future distinction. The young man, however, was not so sanguine ; 
 and he devoted himself to the study of his calling with a resolute 
 assiduity, which knew no relaxation during the forty years of his pro- 
 fessional life. 
 
 Secret of success ? The grand secret is, that the successful man 
 takes one hundred times the trouble that men generally do. Mark the 
 case of Macready. His having been born and brought up on the stage 
 was equal of itself to five years' practice ; and, besides that, he pos-
 
 WILLIAM M ACRE AD Y. 249 
 
 sessed great talent, and uncommon physical powers. Being the man- 
 ager's son, he could have his choice of parts ; and, from the first, he 
 was a favorite with his public, who rewarded his juvenile efforts with 
 indulgent applause. Yet, how he worked! Besides taking infinite 
 pains with his daily and nightly tasks, he used to seek opportunities of 
 laborious private practice. 
 
 "I used," he says, "to get the key of the theatre, lock myself in, 
 and pace the stage in every direction, to give myself ease, and become 
 familiar in my deportment with exits and entrances, and with every 
 variety of gesture and attitude. My characters were all acted over 
 and over, and speeches recited, till, tired out, I was glad to breathe the 
 fresh air again. This was for several years a custom with me." 
 
 Spending his summer vacation by the seaside, he used to ramble 
 along the shore, meditating on the characters he had acted, and de- 
 claiming, like Demosthenes, amid the roar of the waves. He did not 
 need any encouragement to do this ; but he received a strong admoni- 
 tion on the point after performing with the great Mrs. Siddons, whose 
 words he never forgot. 
 
 "Study, study, study," said she; "and do not marry till you are 
 thirty. I remember what it was to be obliged to study at nearly your 
 age with a young family about me. Beware of that. Keep your 
 mind on your art. Do not remit your study, and you are certain to 
 succeed." 
 
 He never ceased to act in the spirit of this advice ; and he made it 
 a point to do his very best every time he performed, whether the house 
 was crowded or empty. Indeed, he took particular pains to make 
 profit out of a bad house ; and, if there were but fifty people present, 
 he would use the opportunity as a lesson in acting, or a dress rehearsal. 
 He used to call it "acting to himself," regarding the audience merely 
 in the light of a green-room looking-glass. Perhaps there is no art 
 practised among civilized men which demands such constant, laborious, 
 Jieroic practice as that of the actor. 
 
 "The player," he remarks in his diary, "by dint of repeated efforts, 
 must perfect himself in tones, attitudes, looks, of which he can only 
 learn the effect under the nervous excitement of experimenting their 
 power on the uncertain sympathies of an heterogeneous assembly." 
 
 He believed, with Talma, that there is only "one best way" of 
 doing a thing, and that the business of an artist is to discover that one 
 way. Without having read the well-known advice of Goethe on the 
 subject, he adopted the plan of fully and earnestly acting his part at
 
 250 WILLIAM MACREADY. 
 
 rehearsal ; and he used to require the same of the young actors whom 
 he trained. This was exceedingly difficult, for nothing is so embar- 
 rassing as to act when there is no audience present. A young actor 
 would say to him, — 
 
 "Sir, I never can act at rehearsal, but I will do it at night." 
 
 To this, Macready would reply, — 
 
 " Sir, if you cannot do it in the morning, you cannot do it at 
 night." 
 
 Nor did he confine his studies to the walls of the theatre. Though 
 one of the most sensitive of men to the sight of suffering, and espe- 
 cially to mental suffering, he braced up his nerves to visit a lunatic- 
 asylum, and succeeded in going through two of the wards ; but, as the 
 superintendent was about to open the third, his resolution gave way, 
 and he was obliged to retire. As long as he remained on the stage, he 
 never ceased to derive profit from that day's painful experience. He 
 was an actor of renown, and in middle life, when he undertook the 
 part of Coriolanus ; but he did not disdain to take lessons of a sculptor 
 in antique attitudes, as well as in wearing the toga, and acquiring the 
 stately walk supposed to be necessary to the delineation of the patrician 
 general of imperial Rome. 
 
 Notwithstanding these efforts, he made no great bounds in his 
 profession, but only steady progress from the beginning to the end. 
 Every step was gained by hard work, and a great deal of it. 
 
 With similar determination he endeavored to conquer the violent 
 temper which he had inherited from his father, though in this his 
 success was by no means triumphant ; and all his life he was liable to 
 an occasional outbreak, invariably followed by the deepest contrition. 
 The manager, Bunn, once required him to omit the last two acts of 
 Richard III., — a marked slight to an actor of rank, according to the 
 usages of the stage. He went through the performance as well as he 
 could ; but, unfortunately, as he passed the door of the manager's 
 room, he opened it, and saw the offending potentate. He could not 
 contain himself. 
 
 " You scoundrel ! " he cried, " how dare you use me in this 
 manner ? " 
 
 Upon saying this, he struck the manager a back-handed slap across 
 the face, which he followed by some wild blows with his fist. Bunn 
 got one of Macready's fingers into his mouth, and bit it, but let go in 
 order to cry " Murder ! " People came running in, and separated the 
 combatants. Macready, though he had endured humiliation upon
 
 WILLIAM MACREADY. 251 
 
 humiliation from the manager for six years, was plunged into the very 
 depths of remorse at losing his self-command at last. He wrote in 
 his diary, — 
 
 " Words cannot express the contrition I feel, the shame I endure. ... I have 
 committed a great error. God Almighty forgive me my forgetfulness of the prin- 
 ciples I have laid down for myself. ... It makes me sick to think of it. . . . Shall 
 I ever know peace of heart again ? . . . I close my eyes with the hated idea, and it 
 awakens with me in the earliest morning." 
 
 A few nights after, when he appeared at another theatre, although 
 the audience received him with acclamations, showing the most lively 
 sympathy with him in the quarrel, he publicly confessed his error, and 
 declared he should never cease to feel the most poignant self-reproach 
 and regret. When Bunn brought a suit for damages, he instructed 
 his lawyer to make no defence ; and he promptly paid the costs and 
 damages awarded, — one hundred and fifty pounds. 
 
 Twice in his life he visited the United States, a country for which 
 he cherished a fond admiration from youth to old age. He always 
 remembered the 4th of July, and sometimes wrote something about it 
 in his diary. As long ago as 1836, he made this entry, which well 
 illustrates the spirit of the man : — 
 
 "July the 4th. To-day is the anniversary of the American Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence. I, as one of the great family of mankind that have profited by that event, 
 thank God for it. How much has the great cause of liberty and improvement been 
 advanced by it ! " 
 
 At the age of fifty-eight he retired from the stage with a modest 
 competence most nobly earned, and spent the long evening of his days 
 as a benevolent country gentleman, maintaining, for many years, a 
 large evening-school for laborers and their children, in which he taught 
 personally until the infirmities of old age prevented. He died in 1873, 
 aged eighty.
 
 ANECDOTES OF JENNY LIND. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 MANY years ago, there lived in the Swedish city of Stockholm 
 a worthy couple by the name of Lind. The husband was a 
 teacher of languages, and the wife kept a small day-school for children. 
 On the 6th of October, 1821, a daughter was born to them, whom 
 they named Jenny. As she developed into girlhood, she was neither 
 healthy nor pretty, but possessed a marvellous voice, which was her 
 only attraction. 
 
 It is said that she would wander about the streets of Stockholm, 
 singing to herself, quite heedless of the many passers-by, who paused 
 a moment to send after the small singer a look of pleased surprise. 
 She could imitate the notes of the birds, the sound of the rising and 
 falling tide, and the tinkling ripple of the water in the fountains. At 
 length the pure, silvery tones of the little songstress found their way 
 to the heart of a benevolent woman, who took the timid, shrinking 
 Jenny to the greatest music-master of Stockholm. The old man, upon 
 hearing her sing, was enraptured ; and she was at once admitted to the 
 school of the opera for study. Now followed many months of weary 
 training ; but the child was always patient, always willing, and labored 
 day and night to become a great singer. 
 
 She sang at the Opera of Stockholm until she was eighteen, and 
 was the favorite of the Swedish public. But stories reached her of 
 the great music-masters of Paris, and she grew restless ; and her one 
 desire was to become a pupil of the famous Garcia, who had trained 
 so many celebrated singers. So, for this large, strange, glittering city, 
 the young girl set out alone, with a will to conquer all things ; and 
 success came to her after four years of persistent labor, clouded by 
 months of discouragement, hours of bitter tears, loneliness, and sor- 
 row. Her voice had gained great strength. Her notes were clear,
 
 ANECDOTES OF JENNY LIND. 
 
 253 
 
 beautiful, and fresh. She had become mistress of her art, and the 
 people of Stockholm again received her rapturously. 
 
 And now her fame went abroad, and other lands were waiting to 
 listen. So out into the great world she went, visiting and singing in 
 all the great cities, — Dresden, Vienna, Berlin, and London. Her 
 
 Jenny Lind. 
 
 name became a household word. Palace-doors were thrown open to 
 her. Kings, queens, and princesses took her by the hand. 
 
 Then came the welcome news that the Swedish nightingale was 
 coming to America. We had heard of her sweet, beautiful life, of her 
 many deeds of charity, of her tenderness toward all humanity ; and 
 there is no key that unlocks the way to all hearts so surely as a noble 
 life. How well I remember the day of her arrival in New York ! It
 
 254 ANECDOTES OF JENNY LIND. 
 
 was a beautiful Sunday morning in the early part of September. After 
 church I strolled down to the dock at the foot of Canal Street, where 
 thousands of excited people — men, women, and children — were wait- 
 ing for the steamer to approach that was to bring the songstress to 
 our shores. The rigging and the masts of vessels lying at the dock 
 swarmed with eager watchers. A superb bower of green trees, over 
 which waved the American flag, was placed upon the wharf. About 
 one o'clock the vessel came to her moorings ; and, amid the shouts and 
 cheers, Miss Lind stepped ashore, and was driven through the crowded 
 streets to her hotel, — the Irving House. 
 
 I happened to be stopping at this hotel at the time, and had many 
 opportunities of seeing the fair singer as she came in and went out, 
 or slowly paced the halls and corridors with some friend, telling, in her 
 happy, childish way, of some pleasant adventure ; or talking of her 
 art, — which was always to her a sacred thing, — her face beaming, 
 and brightening with earnestness as she referred to it. 
 
 The reception of Jenny Lind at Castle Garden, on the night of her 
 first appearance, has probably never been equalled by the reception of 
 any other singer. The entire audience arose to their feet as the fair 
 girl, dressed simply in white, stepped timidly forth, and stood before 
 the largest gathering of people that had ever welcomed her in any 
 land. A moment's pause, a slight fluttering in the first notes, and 
 then full, clear, deliciously sweet, came the "Casta Diva" from Ros- 
 sini's famous opera. The vast audience sat silent and breathless until 
 the end. Then came a very thunder of applause, that sent an echo 
 far out into the night, and across the dark waters of the harbor. 
 
 It was a golden harvest for Jenny Lind. The sum of ten thousand 
 dollars was placed in her hand as her part of the proceeds from the 
 first concert given in America. She immediately resolved to give 
 every dollar of it to charity ; and, sending for the mayor of New York, 
 she advised with him in selecting the various institutions among which 
 she wished the amount distributed. 
 
 Her reputation for generosity became so well known, that every- 
 where her doors were beset by people seeking relief. Few ever went 
 away empty-handed, and no one knows the extent of her benevolence. 
 One night, while Jenny Lind was singing in Boston, a shabbily dressed 
 sewing-girl approached the box-office, saying, as she laid down three 
 dollars for a ticket, — 
 
 " Here goes half a month's earnings, but I want so much to hear 
 Jenny Lind ! "
 
 ANE CD OTES OF JENNY LIND. 255 
 
 The singer's secretary happened to overhear the remark, and a few- 
 moments afterwards he laughingly related it to her. 
 
 "Would you know that girl again?" she asked. He assured her 
 that he would ; and she placed a twenty-dollar gold-piece in his hand, 
 saying, " Poor girl ! give her that with my best wishes." 
 
 She would leave her hotel, drawn away to visit some family who 
 had appealed to her benevolence, and pass down some dark, uncleanly 
 street to the wretched tenement in which the family dwelt. When 
 cautioned lest people should take undue advantage of her bounty, she 
 would reply, — 
 
 " Never mind. If I relieve ten, and one is worthy, I am satis- 
 fied." 
 
 I remember a hundred pleasant stories told about her at the time. 
 During her ten days' stay in Charleston, S.C., being greatly worn with 
 excitement, she declined seeing visitors ; and this, of course, disap- 
 pointed many persons who wished to see her. One romantic young 
 lady, the daughter of a very wealthy planter, was so determined to see 
 her in private, that she paid one of the servants to let her put on a 
 cap and white apron, and carry in the tray with Miss Lind's tea. 
 When the singer heard of this, and was urged to receive one who had 
 so great an admiration for her, she replied, — 
 
 " It is not admiration : it is only curiosity, and I will not encourage 
 such folly." 
 
 While in Havana, she became interested in a poor little Italian boy, 
 called Vivalla. He was in great distress, having lost, by paralysis, the 
 use of his limbs on one side of his body, and he was thus unable to 
 earn a living ; although he kept a performing-dog, which turned a 
 spinning-wheel, and did other curious tricks. Hearing his story, she 
 expressed great sympathy, and said that something must be given him 
 from the "benefit" which she was about to receive. Accordingly five 
 hundred dollars were appropriated for his use, and arrangements were 
 made for his return to friends in Italy. A few days afterwards, he 
 called at her house, during her absence, with a basket of fruit. 
 
 " God bless her, I am so happy ! She is such a good lady ! " he 
 kept repeating to the friend who admitted him. " I should so much 
 like to have her see my dog turn a wheel. He can do it very well. 
 He can spin too. Would she care to see it, do you think ?" 
 
 He was told that Miss Lind had little time to give to strangers, 
 and that she never received thanks for her gifts. 
 
 Upon her return, the fruit was handed to her, and his request to
 
 256 ANECDOTES OF JENNY LIND. 
 
 show her how his dog could turn a spinning-wheel was laughingly- 
 repeated. 
 
 " Poor boy ! do let him come. It is all the kind creature can do for 
 me. Certainly, we will have him here with his dog. It will make us 
 both happy," exclaimed the tender-hearted singer, with eyes full of 
 tears. 
 
 So Vivalla was told that Jenny Lind would like to see his dog per- 
 form the very next day at four o'clock precisely. Full half an hour 
 before the time appointed, she took her seat at the window to watch 
 for the Italian and his dog ; and, when she saw him coming punctual 
 to the minute, she ran down-stairs like a child, and opened the door 
 for him herself. Motioning the servant away, she took the little wheel 
 in her arms, saying, — 
 
 " It is very good of you to come with your dog. Follow me. I 
 will carry the wheel." 
 
 In her beautiful parlors the tender woman, sought by the wealthy 
 and the great, devoted herself to the delighted Italian, getting down 
 upon her knees to pet his dog, playing and singing to him, asking 
 after his friends in Italy, and finally carrying his wheel again to the 
 door when the lad departed. 
 
 It does the heart good to hear of such acts. It gives us new faith 
 that the world cannot spoil, with all its flattery and temptation, a 
 truly noble life. Great as an artist, Jenny Lind was still greater in 
 her pure, human character. 
 
 It is said that there is as good music in the world to-day as was 
 ever heard ; that as sweet songs are sung by other singers as any that 
 my Swedish nightingale poured out to her myriads of spell-bound lis- 
 teners more than thirty years ago. It may be so, but I do not hear 
 them. To me her wonderful voice seems in memory more like the 
 music that makes the harmonies of a brighter and better world than 
 the music that enchants the world to-day.
 
 A GRANDSON OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 By WILL CARLETON. 
 
 ON a soft summer afternoon, some years ago, I arrived at the 
 famous town of Dumfries, in Scotland. The day was leisurely 
 coming to a close, and quiet had settled upon the quaint old city. 
 Peace was everywhere, — in the tranquil, droning streets, in the dis- 
 tant, dreamy hills, in the languid blue sky. There was a poetic calm 
 upon every thing, which corresponded well with the object of my 
 visit. 
 
 I had come to Dumfries because it was for some time the home of 
 Robert Burns, because here he had found his death-bed, and here lay 
 buried. I had been at Ayr, and stood in the small cottage where the 
 baby-poet was tossed up and down, like an ordinary child, by his thrifty, 
 loving mother, who little dreamed that this tiny, nervous, weird-eyed 
 creature was to make her name remembered as long as mothers exist. 
 
 I had wandered by the "banks and braes o' bonnie Doon ; " had 
 stood upon the bridge where Tarn O'Shanter's mare, Meg, lost her 
 famous gray tail; had plucked some ivy from "Kirk Alloway," whose 
 wonderful witch-dance played havoc with me when a boy ; had mused 
 again and again over the localities where was first kindled this flame 
 of human fire, so appropriately named " Burns." Now I wanted to 
 see where he lived his later manhood years, where he died, and was 
 buried. 
 
 After visiting the dreary house from which his great soul took 
 flight, I went to the Dumfries cemetery, and found his tomb, with its 
 quaint monument and quainter surroundings. As I was coming away, 
 the keeper of the gates — a broad-faced, cheery Scotch girl, with an 
 expression of countenance as if she felt that the whole cemetery was 
 a most capital joke — accosted me civilly, but with a degree of freedom, 
 
 and seemed inclined for a bit of gossip. 
 
 257
 
 *5< 
 
 A GRANDSON OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " I ken you will be an American," she exclaimed, with a shrewd 
 glance. 
 
 " I am an American now, my dear," I replied. " Always have been, 
 and always shall be." 
 
 " Oh ! I mean, of course, that you are now," she replied, laughing. 
 "When we Scotch say 'you will be,' or 'you maun be,' we mean 'you 
 probably are.' And no Yank — excuse me, sir, no American — that 
 ever comes this way, can see enough or hear enough aboot Robert 
 Burns. But not many of them ken that in yon building across the 
 way is his ain living grandson, who looks as mickle like he did a? ane 
 gooseberry to anither." 
 
 " Yon building across the way " proved to be a hospital, — in fact, 
 a kind of more genteel poorhouse, — established by some wealthy men 
 of the town. To this institution poor people were admitted, who by 
 birth, talents, or other cause, were considered too good for the com- 
 mon work-house. And here I found him, — a grandson of Robert 
 Burns, a man of the same given name, a man whose father was of the 
 same given name, and, in truth, resembling wonderfully the best pic- 
 tures of the poet. 
 
 He was a stout, soldierly-looking old man, with a considerable ap- 
 pearance of neatness peeping out through all his poverty. His face 
 was cleanly shaven, except that he wore closely trimmed side-whiskers : 
 his eyes were large and bright, and his manners and language those of 
 a gentleman. Throughout the interview, he maintained what might 
 be called a nervous, restless sort of dignity, although evidently feeling 
 the awkwardness of his position ; for few really sensitive and proud 
 people like to be exhibited as some distinguished person's descendant, 
 unless they themselves have done something to add to the family 
 renown. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," he exclaimed, cordially shaking my hand, 
 "but sorry that you find me here. You visit me, I know, not for my- 
 self, but for my illustrious grandfather. It is no credit of mine that 
 I am his descendant. I could not help it ; although, if I had known 
 beforehand that it was intended to be so, I should probably have blun- 
 dered myself out of the honor. I have none of the talent of my 
 distinguished ancestor. But I have some of his faults, and I am 
 sorry to say that I like a dram as well as he ever did. That is why I 
 am here. 
 
 "My father, Robert Burns, jun., had a good position connected 
 with the government in London, and gave me all the money I wanted
 
 A GRANDSON OF ROBERT BURNS. 259 
 
 to spend. He was too good to me. I had an over-easy time through 
 my boyhood. I was a fast young man, and came to be a very wild 
 one. I steadied down in some degree after coming to be a matured 
 man, but the old habits clung to me. I could not shake them off, and 
 they rode me into ruin. For a time I tried teaching a select school. 
 This went very well at first, but the old habits would have their way. 
 The pupils left one by one, my wife died, my son Robert went to Eng- 
 land, and — I am here." 
 
 A shadow, as if formed by some hidden tear, dimmed the bright- 
 ness of the old man's eyes for a moment, as he spoke of the death of 
 his wife and of his son ; but he brushed the tear away, even before it 
 became visible, and went on, — 
 
 " But, of course, you want me to talk of my grandfather, rather 
 than myself. Well, I will tell you all I know about him. My father 
 himself was only eleven years old when the poet died ; but I know 
 much concerning him, and will tell you all I can." 
 
 After which he gave several interesting incidents connected with 
 the poet's life, most of which are in the printed books. He told his 
 stories well, had a good command of language, and that magnetism of 
 manner which makes friends the world over. But, considering that I 
 had read most of these things he was saying, the conversation was not 
 so interesting as the man himself. It was a privilege to watch the 
 kindling of his eye ; to mark his quick and fiery gestures ; to reflect 
 that here was a genuine Robert Burns, in whom flowed some of the 
 great poet's own blood, and who, perhaps, inherited a part of his man- 
 ner and tone, as he certainly did his face. 
 
 I could almost fancy that the poetic hero of my boy-days had come 
 back for an hour into this old town of Dumfries, had met me in some 
 rude inn, and was modestly telling his own trials and triumphs as those 
 of another person. But, at last, the old man came to speak of the 
 squalor and wretchedness that marked the last months of the poet's 
 life, — a state of which his own must often have reminded him. It 
 was then that he burst forth in a torrent of eloquence that showed 
 him to be possessed of some of the talent, and much of the fire, of his 
 immortal ancestor. 
 
 "What makes my blood to boil," he exclaimed in a fierce tone, ris- 
 ing nervously, and stalking to the window, " is to look out across the 
 road, and see pilgrims from all parts of the world come to that grave, 
 and then to reflect that the man whose genius they are worshipping 
 died in a little mean den in yonder crooked street, in mortal terror of
 
 260 A GRANDSON OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 being hauled out of bed, and dragged away to prison, for a paltry debt 
 of five pounds." 
 
 As I parted with this interesting acquaintance of an hour, there 
 came a pang of hopeless pity for this poor man, who, with the warning 
 before him of his grandfather's misery and early death, had all his 
 days followed the same broad, misery-seeking road. 
 
 But, throughout the interview, — in the midst of all his poverty and 
 wretchedness, — there was a spirit of independence which would occa- 
 sionally gleam forth, and remind one that "a man's a man." There 
 was something very refreshing and exhilarating in his manner to an 
 American wanderer, — something that made him think of home. 
 
 When saying good-by, I hesitated whether to offer a parting gift, 
 not knowing if he would take it as a respectfully meant favor, or as a 
 deadly insult. When, at last, I insinuated it as delicately as possible 
 into his broad Scotch palm, he paused a moment, looked at me with 
 a shrewd twinkle in his eye, gradually appropriated the coin, and 
 whispered, — 
 
 "As a loan, my boy, as a loan. I'll pay you the next time you 
 come over." 
 
 Alas ! I had reason afterwards to fear that my " loan " went, before 
 morning, into the till of the same " Globe " tavern, which did so much 
 to hasten the death of the great Robert Burns. 
 
 On a dreary, rain-drenched morning, I left the old town of Dum- 
 fries. The storm was dismally sweeping through the streets. Now 
 and then a gust of wind made that wailing sound which reminds one 
 of the vanished dead. The sky was blotted with clouds, as if it never 
 were to be clear again : the distant hills were all weeping. As I gazed 
 from the railway carriage, my eyes tried to take notes of the sullen 
 scenery ; but my heart would think of nothing but the dead man in 
 the cemetery, and the living one across the way. Not very long were 
 they to be separated by this life-traversed street ; for, ere many months, 
 the news was to come westward across the Atlantic that the grandson 
 of Robert Burns was dead.
 
 MR. GLADSTONE. 
 
 By JAMES PARTON. 
 
 WE must take care to say "Mr. Gladstone," in speaking of the 
 premier. To this day, elderly Englishmen talk of " Mr. Can- 
 ning," "Mr. Pitt," and even "Mr. Fox;" although the statesman last 
 named is more fondly styled " Charles Fox " by men of his own party. 
 When Englishmen call a personage "Mr.," it is a way of intimating 
 that he stands above other titles, and that, like the first " Mr. Pitt," 
 he would have to descend to a lordship. Titles, in fact, are not of 
 much account in the higher circles of Europe. For example : Let 
 there be, in the same English county, an untitled squire with a long 
 pedigree, and a duke with a short one. The squire will hold his head 
 higher, and enjoy greater prestige, than the duke. But "Mr. Glad- 
 stone " would overtop them both. 
 
 It is interesting to note how rapidly and peacefully the old feudal 
 distinctions die out, — how Bismarck eclipses "William;" how Gort- 
 chakoff looms up above Alexander ; how Thiers, Simon, Gambetta, 
 stand for France ; how much more is made of plain Mr. Gladstone 
 than of the Prince of Wales. Ten lines a week in the London 
 "Times" dispose of the Royal Family, but ten columns are some- 
 times insufficient to appease the curiosity of the British public with 
 regard to William Ewart Gladstone. Nevertheless, those royalties 
 still have their use ; for, in all those old countries, there are vast 
 numbers of people who can be influenced only through their imagina- 
 tions. 
 
 Speaking of designations, he was not born to the name of Glad- 
 stone. Sir Robert Peel, in a speech of 1819, spoke of a "Mr. Glad- 
 stones, the great Liverpool merchant," meaning the father of the 
 statesman. But it seems the merchant did not enjoy the final letter 
 
 of his name, and caused it to be legally cut off. Later in life he was 
 
 261
 
 262 MR. GLADSTONE. 
 
 made a baronet, and had, ever after, the sweet privilege of writing on 
 his cards, " Sir John Gladstone." 
 
 In a speech delivered in 1872 to the boys of a Liverpool school, 
 Mr. Gladstone said he saw no reason why commerce should not have 
 its old families, giving able business men to their country generation 
 after generation. It seemed to him a thing to be regretted, and even 
 to be ashamed of, that families, who had acquired wealth and impor- 
 tance through commerce, should turn their backs upon it, as though 
 it were something discreditable. 
 
 " It certainly is not so," he added, " with my brother, or with me. 
 His sons are treading in his steps ; and one of my sons, I rejoice to 
 say, is treading in the steps of my father and my brother." 
 
 And he might have gone back farther ; for he comes of a line of 
 business men, dealers in the same article, grain. Mr. Gladstone, 
 though born in Liverpool, is of Scotch parentage, both on his father's 
 and his mother's side, his father's ancestors having lived for unknown 
 generations in the valley of the Clyde. His great-great-grandfather 
 was a maltster there ; and his great-grandfather carried on the same 
 occupation in the same place, — the latter a man of energy and local 
 distinction, who gained some property, and became an elder in the 
 Scottish Church. 
 
 This Elder Gladstone imparted his energy to his numerous family 
 of five sons and six daughters. One of the sons, Thomas, became a 
 corn-merchant at Leith, the seaport to Edinburgh ; and he, too, though 
 he had sixteen children to support, and twelve to establish in life, 
 accumulated property, and continued the development of his family. 
 
 John Gladstone, the eldest son of this prolific corn-merchant, en- 
 tered his father's business, and, soon after reaching his twenty-first 
 birthday, struck into the path that has led to eminence. His father 
 sent him to Liverpool to sell a cargo of grain which had arrived there ; 
 and, while he was transacting that business, he made such a favorable 
 impression upon one of the principal grain-merchants of the city, that 
 he was offered a place in the house, which he accepted. From clerk 
 he soon became partner ; and, while still a young man, he saved his 
 firm from ruin. 
 
 About the year 1795, there was a great scarcity of grain in Europe ; 
 and this firm of grain-dealers sent the junior partner, John Gladstone, 
 to New York to buy the article, chartering twenty-four vessels to sail 
 after him, and convey grain to Europe. On reaching New York, the 
 young merchant discovered that the crops had extensively failed in
 
 MR. GLADSTONE. 263 
 
 America also, and that no grain could be had. The situation was 
 alarming, for the charter of so many vessels would have swallowed up 
 a great part of the capital of the house. John Gladstone looked about 
 him to find other produce ; and he bestirred himself with such effect, 
 that he contrived to send all the ships home with a cargo, upon which 
 the loss was only trifling. An exploit like this is, in the business 
 world, what a dashing attack is in battle, which, at a critical moment, 
 turns defeat into victory. 
 
 In the course of twenty years, John Gladstone became one of the 
 principal merchants of Liverpool. He invested a considerable portion 
 of his capital in sugar-plantations in the West Indies, a circumstance 
 that was often thrown in the face of his son in the earlier part of his 
 public life. John Gladstone was an ardent politician on the Conser- 
 vative side ; his ideal statesman being George Canning, whose election 
 to Parliament from Liverpool he promoted with all his influence. All 
 through the childhood of the present Premier of England, the name 
 which he heard pronounced at home with the warmest approval was 
 that of Canning, a man formed to excite the enthusiastic admiration 
 of those who agreed with him. He was of noble and commanding 
 appearance, with a voice as sonorous and powerful as Mr. Gladstone's 
 own ; and he had a vein of pleasantry which made his speeches as 
 delightful as they were strong and convincing. In his politics he 
 blended the conservative with the reforming spirit, as Mr. Gladstone 
 himself does. 
 
 The present premier was three years of age when, at the close of 
 an exciting election in Liverpool, Mr. Canning, who had won the day, 
 addressed the people from the balcony of John Gladstone's house ; and 
 to this day, it is said, the name of Canning has a kind of fascination 
 for the premier. For his services in promoting the prosperity of Liv- 
 erpool, John Gladstone was presented by his townsmen with a service 
 of plate. Mr. Canning procured for him a seat in Parliament, and he 
 continued a member of that body for nine years. He was a member 
 of the House when his son entered it, and had the pleasure of witness- 
 ing some of his early successes in that body. In 1845 the Peel min- 
 istry made John Gladstone a baronet, a title still enjoyed by his eldest 
 son, Sir Thomas Gladstone. 
 
 In England the sons of rich people are brought up very much 
 alike, going early from home to one of the great public schools, where 
 they remain seven or eight years, and thence to one of the universities 
 for three years. A period of foreign travel succeeds ; after which the
 
 264 MR. GLADSTONE. 
 
 young favorite of fortune, if he is a fool, settles down to the agreeable 
 waste of his existence ; and, if he is worthy, to the service of his 
 country. Mr. Gladstone went this course, — graduating from Oxford 
 with its highest honors, and greatly distinguishing himself there as a 
 debater. He went to Oxford a Tory, and came home a Tory. In an 
 address two years ago, he told his hearers what he did not learn at 
 Oxford. 
 
 " I trace," said he, " in the education of Oxford of my own time, 
 one great defect. Perhaps it was my own fault, but I must admit 
 that I did not learn when at Oxford that which I have learned since ; 
 namely, to set a due value on the imperishable and the inestimable 
 principles of human liberty." 
 
 He went on to say that the Tory principle is "jealousy of liberty 
 and of the people only qualified by fear ; " while the policy of the 
 Liberal party is, "trust in the people only qualified by prudence." We 
 notice the same difference in the founders and early politicians of this 
 country. Hamilton and the Federalists were afraid of the people, and 
 thought them incompetent to govern themselves. Jefferson and the 
 Republicans trusted the people, and believed that they could govern 
 themselves a good deal better than they had ever been governed. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone was twenty-two years of age when he hurried home 
 from Italy in response to an invitation to enter Parliament as the 
 representative of the English city of Newark. Who invited him ? 
 Not the people of Newark, for they did not know there was such a 
 man as William E. Gladstone. Among the friends of the young man 
 was the Earl of Lincoln, the eldest son of the Duke of Newcastle, 
 who was the chief owner of property in Newark, and in the region 
 round about. As things then were, it was of little avail for any one 
 to oppose a candidate whom this duke supported ; and it was he who 
 summoned the traveller from abroad to contest the town. 
 
 A portrait of him, as he then appeared, has recently been published, 
 — a portrait much disfigured by the high, stiff stock and tremendous 
 coat-collar of the period. No one would recognize it as the likeness 
 of William E. Gladstone, with its round cheeks and coal-black hair. 
 It was an open, engaging countenance, retaining a great deal of that 
 expression which we observe in young men who have been so unspeak- 
 ably fortunate as to preserve their innocence. This quality of inno- 
 cence did not commend him to the electors of Newark. They resented 
 him as the duke's candidate, received his speeches with howls and 
 derision, and asked him disagreeable questions. He was described,
 
 MR. GLADSTONE. 265 
 
 after the election, by the anti-ducal newspaper of the town, as "the 
 son of Gladstone of Liverpool, who has made his gold from the blood 
 of black slaves." 
 
 "Respecting the youth himself," continued the editor, "a person 
 fresh from college, and whose mind is as much like a sheet of white 
 foolscap as possible, he is utterly unknown. He comes recommended 
 by no claim in the world, except tJie will of the duke. The duke nodded 
 unto Newark ; and Newark sent back the man, or rather the boy, of 
 his choice. What ! Are sixteen hundred men still to bow down to a 
 wooden-headed lord, as the people of Egypt used to do to their beasts, 
 to their reptiles, and their ropes of onions ? " 
 
 This was only too true. The young man's opponent was a dis- 
 tinguished lawyer, highly popular, who was greeted with cheers when- 
 ever he was seen ; while the young man from Liverpool was hooted 
 and reviled. But, when it came to voting for the favorite, the people 
 were reported to have said, " We can not, we dare not. We have . lost 
 half our business, and shall lose the rest if we go against the duke." 
 
 Mr. Gladstone was therefore elected, and continued to represent 
 the city for nearly fourteen years, always kept in his place by the 
 Duke of Newcastle. Another curious circumstance is, that the maiden 
 speech of the new member, delivered in May, 1833, was a kind of 
 apology for West-India slavery, in which he defended his father from 
 the charge of inhumanity to his slaves, and declared, that, if the slaves 
 were set free without previous preparation, liberty would be a curse 
 to them instead of a blessing. Very soon, however, he entered upon 
 topics more congenial, and obtained standing in the House as a prom- 
 ising debater. 
 
 It thus appears that one of the leading champions of liberal prin- 
 ciples owed his admission into public life to a flagrant abuse of power 
 on the part of a rich man, who, in this instance, rendered a great and 
 lasting service to his country. On the other hand, where the people 
 are free to choose, they have sometimes made the worst possible choice. 
 A long list of the great lights of the English Parliament owed their 
 first election to the mere power of wealth, and it is doubtful if one 
 young man of first-rate ability has ever been the spontaneous choice of 
 any community. In truth, the art of electing public men has still to be 
 created. 
 
 On coming out of college, the student had taken about the course 
 which the son of a thriving American usually follows. But at this 
 point the paths diverge. The American young man as little thinks of
 
 266 MR. GLADS10NE. 
 
 entering the Legislature, or preparing himself for public life, as if no 
 such employments existed. And suppose he should have such an am- 
 bition, where is there a constituency that would discover his promise 
 of merit, and elect him to a seat in the State House ? I do not say 
 that any constituency ought to do so. It would be against the theory 
 of the government, as well as contrary to the practice of the people. 
 Our people want their representatives to represent them ; and it could 
 not be said that a young Astor, or a young Vanderbilt, or a young 
 Grinnell, just out of Columbia College, could represent any New-York 
 constituency. 
 
 But a student who passes through Eton and Oxford with distinc- 
 tion, becomes known, in some degree, to the whole ruling class of 
 Great Britain ; and there are powerful men in both parties who are on 
 the lookout for promising young men to strengthen their side in Par- 
 liament. Thus, Macaulay wrote a review article or two which tickled 
 extremely the Marquis of Lansdowne, who forthwith sent the young 
 man a polite letter, offering him a seat in Parliament. Mr. Gladstone, 
 in early life, was as strongly inclined to the Tory aspect of things as 
 Macaulay was to the Whig. Over his fine and susceptible organiza- 
 tion the exquisite city of Oxford had cast its magic spell ; as well it 
 might, for it is the most winningly venerable of cities. The Duke of 
 Newcastle offered him also a place in Parliament, which he accepted, 
 and continued to hold by favor of the same duke for fourteen years. 
 
 Now, in many cases, this system works ill, putting into Parliament 
 men without knowledge, or public spirit ; but occasionally it works 
 magnificently well. In the instance of Mr. Gladstone, it gave to 
 Great Britain a statesman who has rendered to his country rare and 
 great services, some of which are out of the line of ordinary politics, 
 and will stand out in history as turning-points. He entered Parlia- 
 ment a pronounced Conservative ; and one of the first of his public 
 acts was to publish an elaborate work upon church and state, in which 
 he maintained that one of the principal ends and duties of a govern- 
 ment is to teach religion. Nor did he limit this statement to Christian 
 governments, but applied it to Mohammedan as well. 
 
 "If," said he, "a Mohammedan conscientiously believes his religion 
 to come from God, and to teach divine truth, he must believe that 
 truth to be beneficial, beyond all other things, to the soul of man ; and 
 he ought therefore to desire its extension, and to use for its extension 
 all proper and legitimate means ; and, if such Mohammedan be a 
 prince, he ought to count among those means the application of what-
 
 MR. GLADSTONE. 267 
 
 ever influence or funds he may lawfully have at his disposal for such 
 purposes." 
 
 This is rather vague ; but it would seem to justify much of the 
 intolerance, and even persecution, of early times. Macaulay flew at 
 this book in the exuberance of his youthful strength, and tore it to 
 shreds. He asserted that this passage justified the Emperor Julian in 
 employing his power to destroy Christianity; and justified the Sultan 
 of Turkey in excluding from office, in his Christian dominions, all per- 
 sons who were not Mohammedans ! Mr. Gladstone, however, is a man 
 capable of learning from contact with men and affairs. This great 
 statesman, who began life as the champion of such opinions as these, 
 crowned his career by disestablishing the Episcopal Church in Ireland. 
 He entered Parliament a Protectionist, and he lent powerful help to 
 Sir Robert Peel in repealing the corn-laws. Not too friendly to the 
 United States at the beginning of the civil war, he submitted the claim 
 of the United States to international arbitration, and thus took the 
 first step towards the suppression of war, and its costly armaments. 
 
 English statesmen generally enjoy an advantage, not always pos- 
 sessed by those of our own land, in having country estates to which 
 they can retire when out of office, and occasionally while in office. 
 No one can attain to the full measure of harmonious manhood who is 
 totally severed from the soil, the common source of health and wealth ; 
 and surely, if any man should have an advantageous lot, it is those 
 who administer public affairs. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone's country home is at Hawarden, a beautiful parish 
 in the county of Flint, within sight and sound of the Irish sea. Flint, 
 or Flintshire, is the smallest county in Wales, but not the least attrac- 
 tive. One-third of its extent is owned by thirteen proprietors, of 
 whom the premier ranks second in the number of his acres. Lord 
 Hanmer has seventy-three hundred and eighteen, and Mr. Gladstone 
 sixty-nine hundred and eight, acres. Except a well-wooded park, this 
 estate is divided into farms, which are let to tenants upon long leases, 
 at a rent of something like ten dollars an acre. This rent, however, 
 has of late years been subject to serious reductions, owing to an ex- 
 traordinary series of bad harvests. Such an estate would usually yield 
 the proprietor about forty thousand dollars a year. 
 
 The house in which Mr. Gladstone lives is called Hawarden Castle. 
 American visitors, who naturally think that all castles must be like 
 those described in Sir Walter Scott's poems and novels, are disap- 
 pointed in finding this one an imitation castle, built only fifty or sixty
 
 268 MR. GLADSTONE. 
 
 years ago, — a plain, roomy house, with sham battlements, such as a 
 retired merchant of the last generation might have built. Indeed, we 
 believe it was built by Mrs. Gladstone's grandfather, who was an alder- 
 man of Liverpool. The aesthetic visitor is consoled by a sight of the 
 real Hawarden Castle, — an ivy-mantled ruin, which lifts its green and 
 venerable front in full view of the inhabited mansion, which has noth- 
 ing to recommend it, except that it is convenient and comfortable. 
 
 It may be said, perhaps, that these two edifices well represent their 
 present proprietor, who is himself a nineteenth-century man, yet cher- 
 ishes a wise regard for the fourteenth. We say a wise regard. He 
 values the ivy-mantled ruin, without forgetting that it is a ruin, and 
 lives in the ugly house which has the modern improvements. 
 
 Mr. Thoreau would not approve the interior of Mr. Gladstone's 
 abode. Thoreau was of opinion that we moderns have too many 
 "things." He was never tired of laughing at the man, who, when he 
 was advised to go South for the cure of his consumption, cried out, in 
 a pitiful tone, — 
 
 " But what shall I do with my furniture ? " 
 
 From the picture published some time ago of Mr. Gladstone's 
 library, we should conclude it useless for any friend or admirer to give 
 him a bust, a statuette, an easy-chair, or a book. He is full. 
 
 The charm of Hawarden, as of every other noted European house, 
 is its park. For many centuries, the English people have had a par- 
 ticular taste for rural beauty, owing to the fact that the homes of 
 powerful families have always been in the country. If you were to go 
 through the whole of Burke's Peerage, and ask every person mentioned 
 in it, " Where do you live, my lord ? " not one of them would answer, 
 "London." They have "houses" in London, but their homes are 
 where the birds sing. Hence, age after age, the taste of the nation 
 has exhausted itself in developing and displaying the loveliness of the 
 country, until an English park is the most exquisite thing to be seen 
 in the world. Mr. Gladstone delights chiefly in his trees, and he likes 
 them too well to let them fall into decay. When a tree has reached 
 its perfect growth, he rejoices to cut it down with his own hands and 
 a good American axe. He has a choice collection of thirty axes, many 
 of which have been sent to him by persons sympathizing with his love 
 of the woodsman's craft. For his own chopping, however, he will 
 have no axe but the instrument made in New England, and developed 
 to perfection by two centuries of battle with the primeval forest. 
 
 A very pretty story was published some time ago in the English
 
 MR. GLADSTONE. 269 
 
 » 
 
 papers about Mr. Gladstone and his son cutting down a tree in the 
 presence of a great number of spectators. Access to the park is 
 freely granted to the inhabitants of the adjacent country : and, on this 
 particular occasion, a liberal club, numbering fourteen hundred per- 
 sons, passed a day there with the permission of the owner ; and they 
 sent him a request that he would come out and address them. This 
 he declined to do ; but he told the committee that he and his son were 
 going into the park in the afternoon to fell a tree, and he would then 
 respond to any vote of thanks which the company might give him. 
 
 About four in the afternoon, the two gentlemen came forth, — the 
 father sixty-seven, the son twenty-eight, — both dressed in rough clothes 
 and soft hats, with axes in their hands ; and they were followed to the 
 tree by the whole crowd, who arranged themselves in a great circle 
 around it. It was a tree of immense size, five feet in diameter ; but 
 the two gentlemen took off their coats, hats, and cravats, until their 
 costume was reduced to trousers and checked shirts, and soon began 
 to make the chips fly in a lively manner, the more zealous of the ex- 
 cursionists picking them up as mementos . of the occasion. A Glee 
 Club struck up a song, the whole crowd joining in the chorus, with axe 
 accompaniment ; and, when the choppers paused to wipe the perspi- 
 ration from their faces, the crowd drew near to shake hands with Mr. 
 Gladstone, who, however, refused this privilege to all but the ladies 
 of the company. Finally, a vote of thanks was passed ; and the states- 
 man spoke a few friendly words in reply, thanking them for their music, 
 and expressing the pleasure he felt in their presence on his domain. 
 
 This is a delightful picture. It is thus that the people and their 
 servants ought to feel toward one another, and it is thus they will feel 
 when both parties deserve it. 
 
 I have never had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Gladstone speak, 
 though I have been in the House of Commons when he was present. 
 I will borrow a description of his oratory from Mr. G. W. Smalley, the 
 English correspondent of "The New-York Tribune," who accompanied 
 the premier to Mid-Lothian in 1884: — 
 
 " The first note of his voice was listened for with something like anxiety. Is it 
 possible, that, after five years, that marvellous organ should be still in its full perfec- 
 tion of flexible strength ? The curious in such details may note that a bottle of 
 yellow fluid, from which a tumbler has been half filled, stands on the table. The 
 yellow fluid is egg-flip, a beverage, which, on this occasion, may be described as 
 purely medicinal in character and purpose, and is compounded of the yolk of two or 
 three eggs, and two glasses of sherry. This is to keep throat and voice in order;
 
 270 MR. GLADSTONE. 
 
 and, before the orator has made an end, he has sipped a tumblerful. But the first 
 note of the voice, and the first half-dozen sentences of the first day, were re-assuring. 
 There is no longer any fear that Mr. Gladstone may be overtaxing his energies. I 
 heard one of his friends say that he himself could take an accurate measure of his 
 capacities, and of the precise demands a particular hall and audience would make 
 upon them. He feels, as the rest of us feel, that the voice is all right. Yet he does 
 not once try its full compass. The speech is didactic, expository, argumentative, any 
 thing you like but passionate or pathetic ; and you never know the full resources of 
 this all but unequalled voice till you have heard it used in anger, in pity, in ridicule 
 (for which he keeps one or two very subtle semi-notes), — above all, in one of those 
 appeals to principle, and to what I must call religious conviction, which so often and 
 so nobly close some of his greatest speeches. 
 
 " I can well imagine that a stranger, hearing Mr. Gladstone on Saturday for the 
 first and only time, should go away with a certain sense of incompleteness in his 
 experience. He would have heard a speech which nobody else could have made, but 
 he would by no means have heard the orator at his best. What I have said about 
 the little call he made on his voice may be applied to the speech itself. He has not 
 asked himself to do all he can. It is a speech with a definite purpose; and he has 
 deliberately sacrificed every thing to the one great end of impressing on the country 
 the supreme importance of the Franchise Bill, and on the lords the supreme advis- 
 ability of yielding, without force, to the will of the people. But let the stranger 
 come again on Monday. The place is the same, the scene is the same, the same 
 orator stands on the same platform. But he is no longer in the same mood of sweet 
 reasonableness, and nothing else. The very face has changed. On Saturday it wore 
 a look of resolute placidity. On Monday the features are allowed their natural play; 
 and, if you sit near enough to look into those onyx-hued eyes, you will vainly try to 
 sound their luminous depths. Anybody who has seen Mr. Gladstone often, will dis- 
 cover at once, that, for this second address, he feels himself — to use again his own 
 memorable expression — unmuzzled. There is no longer the dread of rousing popu- 
 lar passion against an institution, which, in his heart of hearts, the prime minister is 
 more anxious to support than to assail. The inexorable necessity of caution weighs 
 him down no longer. He approaches this new task with a buoyant delight in the 
 easy triumph he is about to win. The five years have rolled off his brow. Erect, 
 elastic, exultant, he can hardly wait till the five thousand in front have done cheering, 
 — indeed, but for his obvious impatience to begin, they might be cheering till now. 
 In the first sentence on Monday, you really hear his voice for the first time. No 
 trace of fatigue from the prolonged effort of Saturday. None of the hardness of 
 tone which was to be heard then. Compass, range, and quality are all enlarged and 
 bettered. 
 
 '•His task now is, to retort upon his opponents the charges they have been 
 heaping up against him. For five years the Tories have gone about insisting, with 
 vague but emphatic assertion and re-assertion, that the prime minister had falsified 
 the pledges which Mr. Gladstone had given in the first Mid-Lothian speeches. Three- 
 fourths of his speech on Monday are one triumphant cry, 'Prove it!' or, rather, 
 1 You have tried to prove it. You have had the text, you have piled accusation upon 
 accusation, you have had years to get up your case. I challenge you to put your finger 
 on one count of this long indictment which you have supported by one syllable of evi-
 
 MR. GLADSTONE. 27 1 
 
 dence.' He goes over the record. He reviews the situation. He passes from topic 
 to topic, perhaps too rapidly ; perhaps with a too comprehensive ambition, and with 
 too much eagerness to survey, in one single statement, the whole course of his ad- 
 ministration, and to condense into this hour and a half a complete epitome of all he 
 said in a week in 1879, and all that his enemies have said in five years since; and to 
 set in a halo of light all the glaring contradictions, the baseless inventions, of his 
 critics, and the perfect and absolute harmony between his own pledges and the ac- 
 complished facts of his subsequent career. But what a scope such a programme 
 gives him ! How he revels in it ! How he heaps irony upon sarcasm ! and how his 
 defence rises to white-heat, and the steel you thought he was shaping into a shield 
 suddenly flashes before you a two-edged sword, and cleaves asunder, in one blinding 
 stroke, the unhappy foe ! 
 
 " Oh, yes ! this indeed is oratory ; and in the two hours, less ten minutes, during 
 which it lasts, you may find examples of nearly every charm which it is possible for 
 an orator to work upon his hearers. The effect he produces does not owe much to 
 gesture. There is gesture, but it often lacks expressiveness. The arms are used 
 pretty constantly ; but the same movement of the same muscles is made to signify, 
 or meant to signify, very different things. It wants what on the French stage is 
 called largeness or amplitude ; and it is sometimes violent, sometimes deficient in 
 the grace and suavity which the admirable smoothness of voice leads you to expect. 
 The shoulders rise and fall with what I am afraid must at times be described as jerki- 
 ness. Indeed, at such moments, the voice itself sometimes loses its purity, and harsh 
 notes are heard. The rather frequent passage of the right forefinger across the lips, 
 and the curious touch of the thumb on a particular spot at the summit of the broad 
 arch of the forehead, are peculiarities which I mention only for the sake of fidelity, 
 and with every apology to the orator for taking note of such specks upon the general 
 splendor of his delivery. So of the quick bending and straightening of the knees. 
 The impression one gets from these exceptional things is but momentary. They are 
 incidents due to the overmastering intensity of thought and aim, — nature, in her 
 cruder moods, getting the better of the consummate art which is the prevailing, and 
 all but continuous, condition with the orator. If there be any deficiencies of this 
 sort, you will hardly observe them unless after long familiarity with the speaker. 
 It is the face which will rivet your gaze, — the play of features, alike delicate and 
 powerful, and the ever-restless, far-searching glance. Never was such a tell-tale 
 countenance. Expression after expression sweeps across it, the thought pictures 
 itself to you almost before it is uttered ; and, if your eyes by chance meet his, it 
 is a blaze of sunlight which dazzles you. Nor do the little blemishes really mat- 
 ter. What masters, what impresses, you, and what you will carry away with you as 
 a permanent and precious memory, is, above all other things, the nobleness of pres- 
 ence, the beautiful dignity, the stateliness of bearing, the immense sincerity, which 
 are visible to the eyes of the most careless spectator, and which fill the hall with 
 their influence, and place the great multitude wholly at the mercy of the one fellow- 
 being who stands before them."
 
 MR. GLADSTONE IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 Bv LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 IT is not the easiest thing in the world for a lady to gain admittance 
 to the House of Commons. She must either know a member, or 
 be acquainted with some one who does ; since one is admitted only 
 upon a member's order. 
 
 There are six hundred and fifty-six members of the House ; and the 
 Ladies' Gallery will not hold comfortably more than sixty persons, — 
 will not, indeed, hold more than thirty who can have the slightest 
 chance of seeing and hearing. Admissions so difficult of attainment 
 are eagerly sought ; and as each member can introduce only two 
 ladies, when his infrequent turn comes, one has often to wait for some 
 time before being present at a session of what Walter Bagehot, in one 
 of his clever essays, called " a nocturnal and oratorical club, where you 
 met the best people who could not speak, as well as a few of the worst 
 who would." 
 
 May 16, 1881, was rather a Field Day in the House ; as the attend- 
 ance was very full, and Gladstone made one of his bravest and best 
 speeches. 
 
 Your first impression of the House is, that it is a somewhat small 
 and simple hall of assembly for the representatives of so great a na- 
 tion as Great Britain. It is seventy feet long, forty-five broad, and 
 forty-five high. The Ladies' Gallery is at the north end, and under- 
 neath it the Reporters' Gallery, below which is the Speaker's desk. 
 On the right of the Speaker's desk are the Liberal Benches. The 
 Treasury Bench, where sit Gladstone and the members of the govern- 
 ment, is the one nearest the Speaker; and back of it, occupying all that 
 side of the hall, are Gladstone's supporters, — the Liberal members. 
 
 On the left of the Speaker's desk are the benches of the Opposi- 
 tion, the upper half of them being occupied by the Conservatives ; 
 272
 
 MR. GLADSTONE IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 273 
 
 while below the gangway, on the same side with the Conservatives, sit 
 the Home Rulers, — the Irish members, who desire for Ireland her 
 own Parliament in Dublin. It is the policy of the 
 Home Rulers to oppose the government, whatever 
 the government may be. Thus, the present govern- 
 ment being Liberal, they sit with the Conservatives, 
 between whom and themselves the union is about 
 as close as between oil and water. 
 
 Gladstone. 
 
 These rows of benches, three on each side, are not nearly enough 
 to accommodate all the members, if, on any rare occasion, they should 
 turn out in full force ; so there are two upper galleries, on each side, 
 for them to overflow into. At the end of the members' benches is the 
 bar, merely a sort of threshold or foot-line across the floor, but full of 
 significance. Below the bar are some benches occupied by friends of 
 the speakers, and people who have some kind of connection with the
 
 274 MR. GLADSTONE IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 House ; and it is on one of these benches that Bradlaugh, fhe trouble- 
 some, had been wont to sit, making his frequent advances to the bar, 
 until his entrance into the House was forbidden. 
 
 At the lower end of the hall, opposite the Ladies' Gallery, are 
 three more galleries, — the Peers' Gallery, the Ambassadors' Gallery, 
 and the Strangers' Gallery. All these various galleries are hospitably 
 open to the light, and well adapted for hearing the speakers, with the 
 sole exception of the Ladies' Gallery, which is shut off from the rest 
 of the House by a grating similar to those with which we protect our 
 area-windows from cats or burglars. 
 
 It is a little dark box of a place ; and, shut in there, the beauty of 
 old England looks through little holes in the grating, some three or 
 four inches square, down on the oratorical tournament of England's 
 chivalry below. It is impossible to see much of the House, unless you 
 get a front seat in the gallery ; and it is yet more impossible to hear, 
 yet even the farthest back seats are taken. I asked a member why 
 the ladies were thus hidden, and was told that they were " supposed 
 not to be there at all." This little box behind the grating is a con- 
 cession to the natural desire of the English feminine heart to see how 
 its lords disport themselves, but the weakness is hid by the grating. 
 
 I had an excellent view of Gladstone as he sat on the Treasury 
 Bench. He looked old and worn ; but seventy-two years is, at least, 
 not youth, though in England they hardly call it old age. On this 
 particular occasion, the prime minister seemed weary, and was very 
 pale. 
 
 The first two hours were occupied with the putting of questions, 
 many of them coming from the benches of the Home Rulers. Among 
 the latter sat Justin MacCarthy, the novelist, and the author of that 
 pleasant and taking history of our own times which every one has been 
 reading. Not far off was the famous Irish agitator, Parnell. He has 
 a scholarly, intellectual face, and he comported himself very quietly. 
 In the front row of the Home Rulers was a young member named 
 O'Donnell, who was the most perfect Jack-in-the-box, scarcely sitting 
 down before he was on his feet again. 
 
 He had, evidently, a pleasant conviction that he was good-looking, 
 and wanted to appear at his best. You would see him furtively run- 
 ning his fingers through his hair, twirling the corners of his mustache, 
 patting his necktie affectionately, and then he would spring to his 
 feet, and talk with all an Irishman's swift enthusiasm. He was evi- 
 dently the most troublesome of the Obstructives. For him to begin
 
 MR. GLADSTONE IN THE HOUSE. 275 
 
 to speak was the signal for a general disturbance. Cries of " No, no ! " 
 and " Order, order ! " from the ministerial benches, were responded to 
 by vociferous and encouraging shouts of "Hear, hear!" from his own 
 friends. Once or twice the disturbance was too much for him, and he 
 subsided into his seat with a protest. At such times, the clamor was 
 not unlike that of a bear-garden ; and you came to the conclusion, that 
 it was as noisy an affair to govern the great English nation as to 
 manage a menagerie. 
 
 The members usually kept their hats on, except when they rose to 
 speak ; though the prime minister and the other members of the gov- 
 ernment were all the time decorously uncovered. I looked directly 
 down upon the strong, bald head of Mr. Gladstone, with his keen, 
 aquiline profile, and his steadfast lips ; and a sense of his power 
 grew on me. He rose, now and then, in answer to some question, 
 and spoke for a few minutes ; but his voice was weak, and I was unable 
 to catch many of his words. I began to think that his oratorical days 
 must be over, but I was to find out my mistake later on. 
 
 Mrs. Gladstone came once or twice into the Ladies' Gallery, and 
 looked anxiously down on him ; and I heard her say that he was very 
 ill, and she was troubled lest he might not be able to speak on the 
 Land Bill, as was expected. 
 
 From half-past five to half-past six, one group of ladies after an- 
 other went out to the tea-room, leaving fan or reticule or book in 
 their seats by way of token that they meant presently to return and 
 reclaim them. The tea-room is very pleasant and comfortable, and its 
 rest and refreshment were most welcome. You get chops, sandwiches, 
 bread and cheese, delicious tea or coffee, or any slight refreshment you 
 may fancy ; and then you make your way back to the little den behind 
 the railing. 
 
 At about a quarter to seven, the questions having been disposed 
 of for the night, Mr. Gladstone rose to discuss the Irish Land Bill. 
 He apologized for speaking earlier than had been expected, on the 
 ground of indisposition which would prevent him from remaining 
 through the evening. 
 
 At first his voice was low and weak, as when he had spoken to 
 the questions ; but it gathered strength and volume as he went on. 
 He has one gesture only ; and that is, to bring down his right hand with 
 a sort of sledge-hammer force on the table in front of him, where lie 
 his voluminous papers, to which he seldom, however, refers. His 
 speech was strong, telling, noble. He had just a touch of playfulness
 
 276 MR. GLADSTONE IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 sometimes, as when he said, concerning one of his opponents, " My 
 noble friend delivered his speech with such good humor, and was him- 
 self so obviously pleased with it, that his delight was almost infectious. 
 I myself was not insensible to the charm of it." 
 
 There was something almost touching in the tribute he paid to his 
 lifelong antagonist, Lord Beaconsfield, of whose insight and far-seeing 
 wisdom he spoke very warmly. 
 
 "I have had," he said, "a long experience of Lord Beaconsfield; 
 and you do not remain wholly ignorant of a man with whom, on a 
 thousand questions, you are obliged, however unequally, to measure 
 swords." 
 
 There was the ring of a brave, proud manliness in the tone in 
 which he said, — 
 
 " This question will never be settled by a measure smaller than the 
 Bill before the House. If you overthrow it, and with it the govern- 
 ment which attaches to it its fortunes, and if you take their places, you 
 will pass, not a smaller, but a larger, measure." 
 
 In the whole speech, there was a breadth of toleration, a fair-minded 
 willingness to listen to whatever of helpful or modifying suggestion 
 might come from the other side, that was beyond praise. As he went 
 on, his voice grew constantly deeper and richer. His words were 
 chosen with the utmost precision and felicity ; yet they flowed from 
 his lips without hesitation, and without effort. 
 
 I have heard men who gave one a greater sense of passionate and 
 persuasive oratorical power, but no man, anywhere, who has spoken 
 to one's intellect more simply, strongly, and commandingly than this 
 old man eloquent. 
 
 For an hour and a half he spoke, without the slightest symptom of 
 flagging, holding the rapt attention of his audience. When he sat 
 down, at last, one could see that the inevitable physical re-action had 
 come upon him. His head fell back wearily. His face grew very pale 
 again ; and, at a quarter-past eight o'clock, he went out of the House 
 with slow and weary steps. 
 
 The debate continued, after he left, until two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. But the lion had gone ; and one felt that the rest, bright and 
 forcible as many of their speeches were, were not worthy of compari- 
 son with him.
 
 COLLEGE LIFE OF RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 By E. P. WHIPPLE. 
 
 THE early days of one of the greatest advocates, lawyers, and 
 orators of our country possess special interest to the young stu- 
 dent who has fixed upon law as his profession. Law, in the United 
 States, has always been more or less connected with politics. Rufus 
 Choate was a great lawyer, who was drawn into politics against his 
 will. The wish of his heart was to devote to literature, and to literary 
 production, all the leisure which the exacting requirements of his pro- 
 fession would allow him to obtain. He was a statesman and a patriot, 
 but he was not a politician. 
 
 In the early life of this remarkable man, we detect in germ the 
 traits of mind and character which distinguished his manhood. He 
 belonged to one of the "noble families" of New England ; that is, of 
 farmers who worked on their own land, and by their frugality, integ- 
 rity, and intelligence established modest homes, in which all the do- 
 mestic virtues flourished. The "Choates" date from the year 1667. 
 They had a farm in that part of the town of Ipswich, Mass., now called 
 Essex. The farm was on an island, separated from the main land by 
 an arm of the sea. Here Rufus Choate was born, on Oct. 1, 1799- 
 
 His father, like all the Choates of whom anybody has ever heard, 
 was a man who would have obtained prominence in any locality where 
 he resided. He had all the solid qualities of character which invite 
 and justify public trust in tested honesty and ability. Rufus was the 
 second son, but he ranked as the fourth of six children. From his 
 birth he showed peculiar qualities of mind and character. There was 
 something in him which made him, not only different from his brothers, 
 but different from New-England boys generally. He not only pos- 
 sessed genius, but genius of a rare and peculiar kind. Years after- 
 wards, in a speech in the Senate of the United States, he hints of the
 
 278 COLLEGE LLFE OF RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 feelings and meditations which occupied no small portion of his own 
 childhood and youth. In speaking of the advantages of a protective 
 tariff, he lays special emphasis on its promoting diversity of occupa- 
 tions. He then sketches the history of a family of five sons, four of 
 whom find the employment which best fits the taste and talent of each. 
 But what for the fifth son ? " In the flashing eye, beneath the pale 
 and beaming brow of that other one, you detect the solitary first 
 thoughts of genius. There are the seashore of storm or calm, the 
 waning moon, the stripes of summer-evening cloud, traditions, and all 
 the food of the soul for him." Here we have Choate the boy described 
 by Choate the man. 
 
 He had the poet's power of infusing individual life into inanimate 
 things. When, as a boy, he drove home his father's cow, he would 
 sometimes, after throwing away the switch, go back, pick it up, and 
 place it under the tree from which he had cut it. "Perhaps," he said, 
 "there is, after all, some yearning of nature between them still." 
 Even Wordsworth, eminently the poet of Nature, did not have, at so 
 early an age, a sympathy with nature so refined as this. 
 
 It is to be supposed that such a boy would, to use his own expres- 
 sion, throw himself on books "like a famished host on miraculous 
 bread." The books that he could obtain were few in number; but 
 those he devoured, not only remembering all they contained, but realiz- 
 ing to his imagination all they suggested. The words, as they passed 
 into his mind, instantly became things. From the page on which his 
 eyes rested, there started up glowing pictures, and fascinating persons. 
 He read the " Pilgrim's Progress " when he was six years old ; and he 
 not only got it by heart, but eloquently expounded it to his companions, 
 dramatically reproducing the scenes, incidents, and characters of that 
 wonderful allegory, so that the little people he addressed were made 
 to see in it what he saw. Another book in which he delighted, was a 
 life of Marshal Saxe, — an eminent leader of the armies of France 
 about the middle of the eighteenth century. All that general's battles 
 were fought over again in the boy's imagination ; and he caught also, 
 as by infection, the marshal's military ardor. But sea-fights had even 
 more attraction for him than land-fights. He was thirteen years old 
 when the war of 181 2, between the United States and England, broke 
 out. From the shore, he often caught sight of English and American 
 cruisers in Ipswich Bay. He eagerly read all accounts he could obtain 
 of naval engagements, especially between English and American ships- 
 of-war. Nothing pleased him more than to give to those around him
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF RUFUS CHOATE. 279 
 
 as vivid an idea of a sea-fight as glowed in his own mind. His brother 
 records that he would act over certain parts of such a contest with 
 other boys, "he telling them what to do, how to load, at what to aim, 
 not how to strike a flag (that never seemed to come in the category), 
 but how to nail one to the mast, with orders to let it wave while he 
 lived." 
 
 And, again, while he and his younger brother were waiting "for the 
 family to breakfast, dine, or sup (that was the way the children were 
 then taught to do), one would have the dog, and the other the cat, 
 each holding it fast, and, at the signal, bringing them suddenly to- 
 gether, in imitation of two hostile ships or armies ; Rufus, in the mean 
 while, repeating the story of an actual, or imagined, fight with as much 
 volubility as he ever afterwards used in court, and with such an arrange- 
 ment of the plan of the fight as made all seem wonderfully real." 
 
 His passion for the sea, at this time, was intense. The height of 
 his ambition was to be a captain of a man-of-war. The thorough-going 
 patriotism which blazes and burns in many an imperfectly reported 
 oration of his manhood was doubtless intensified by the fact, that dur- 
 ing the most impressible years of his life, from thirteen to sixteen, his 
 country was at war with England. On our side the glory of that war 
 was specially naval. The exclamation of the American heroic sailor, 
 " Don't give up the ship ! " was always one of his favorite quotations ; 
 and, as it came from his lips, it caught much of the glow and inspira- 
 tion which originally prompted its utterance. , 
 
 But the boy was a hardy stripling, good for practical every-day labor 
 on the farm, as well as good for flights of genius, which soared above 
 all his surroundings, and all the people with whom he was associated. 
 He not only could tire out most of his companions on the playground, 
 but he was an excellent hand at field-work, and engaged with alacrity, 
 even in the monotonous work of digging and hauling stone, and con- 
 structing stone walls. Indeed, the master-workman in the latter de 
 partment declared that it was a pity a lad so strong and active should 
 be sent to college, — it being, some sixty years ago, a prevalent feeling 
 among New-England farmers, that only the weakling of the family, fit 
 for no useful labor, should receive a collegiate education ; but the lad 
 
 gayly replied to this regret of the sturdy fence-builder, " Mr. N , 
 
 if ever I'm a lawyer, I'll plead all your cases for nothing." Still, he 
 always carried, into the roughest physical work, a certain poetic elation 
 of mind, and a kind of poetic elasticity of body, — something which 
 the laborers about him called springy.
 
 2 So COLLEGE LIEE OF RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 His handling of a crowbar, his jumping to hook or unhook a chain, 
 or to stop or start a team, had a grace and swiftness of movement 
 which commanded admiration ; and, at every lucky hit in his work, he 
 gave a cry of joyous exultation, such as we might suppose a lyrical 
 poet would give as a fine epithet or a new image flashed upon his 
 fancy. Indeed, it may be truly said of him, in regard to all these 
 matters, that — 
 
 " Rustic life and poverty 
 Grew beautiful beneath his touch." 
 
 He can hardly be said to have had any regular "schooling." What 
 he had was intermittent. He learned much at the district school, 
 but more from the occasional instruction of elderly friends and rela- 
 tives of his family, who gladly volunteered to teach a pupil so promis- 
 ing. His quickness of apprehension, and his ready memory of what 
 he apprehended, would have been insufficient to qualify him to enter 
 college at the age of sixteen, had he not, in the course of his miscel- 
 laneous and interrupted studies, prematurely developed some of the 
 higher faculties of the mind, — those faculties which arrange bits of 
 information, obtained here and there, into some logical order, and 
 which so combine disunited parts of knowledge loosely floating in the 
 memory, that they lead up to the principles on which they depend, 
 and give meaning and coherence to much "scattering and unsure 
 observance." 
 
 Choate's real preparation for college seems to have been about six 
 months, which he passed at Hampton Academy. In the summer of 
 1815, he entered Dartmouth College, at the age of sixteen. Here, as 
 in all his previous experiences of school-life, he was soon recognized 
 as a person of exceptional genius and character. His merely physical 
 advantages were in his favor, for Dartmouth had never before received 
 a freshman who equalled him in classic beauty of form and face. In- 
 deed, he continued to be what New-Englanders call "a very handsome 
 man," until strenuous labors, in the court-room, and in the Senate of 
 the United States, had eventually reduced his ruddy complexion almost 
 to the color of saffron, and had broken up his once smooth counte- 
 nance into a thousand wrinkles, the records left by severe and exhaust- 
 ing thought. But, when he entered Dartmouth, he was the model of 
 what a college student should be. During the first year of his college- 
 course, his modesty kept him in the background : but it was soon 
 apparent that he was the first man in his class ; and it is a signal 
 proof of the essential geniality of his nature, that his fellow-collegians
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF RUFUS CLiOATE. 
 
 281 
 
 cordially ratified the decision of the professors. He was not only 
 recognized as the first man in his class, but all felt that there was a 
 wide gulf between him and the second man in it. 
 
 His progress, in every study, was so rapid, that one of his class- 
 mates afterwards declared 
 that he never knew a stu- 
 dent in the college, who 
 attempted to study a sub- 
 ject with Choate, who did 
 not abandon the compan- 
 ionship in despair, because 
 he felt himself " a clog and 
 an encumbrance on the 
 
 swift mind that leaped to results at which his own intellect painfully 
 crawled." 
 
 The superiority of Choate is proved, as I have said, by the readi- 
 ness with which it was acknowledged by his fellow-students. Envy 
 and rivalry might be active in his class, but could never be directed 
 against him ; for envy, the meanest of passions, was overcome by
 
 282 COLLEGE LIFE OF RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 Choate's willingness to aid his companions in every attempt they made 
 to surpass himself ; and his ingenuous modesty made his evident 
 superiority a fact which was accepted without a murmur. All who 
 knew Mr. Choate, when his fame was fully established, must have 
 noted how unobtrusive he was in conversation. When he quoted from 
 an author, he began by saying to his companion for the time, " As you 
 must remember ; " and, when he stated a novel fact or opinion, it was 
 commonly introduced with the remark, " As you very well know." 
 
 There was always manifested in his mind, character, and behavior, 
 in youth as well as in manhood, a certain magical charm. A student 
 of Dartmouth, entering the recitation-room for the first time, has 
 recorded his impressions of the scene presented to him. 
 
 "I watched," he says, "each successive voice with the keen curi- 
 osity of a new-comer, when Choate got up, and in those clear, musical 
 tones, put Livy's Latin into such exquisitely fit and sweet English as 
 I had not dreamed of, and in comparison with which all the other con- 
 struing of that morning seemed the roughest of unlicked babble." 
 
 He graduated in 1819, with the highest honors. At Commence- 
 ment he delivered the valedictory oration. His health had broken 
 down towards the close of his last year in college, and his six weeks 
 of vacation were to him weeks of enfeebling sickness. Still, his vale- 
 dictory was so excellent, that it remains one of the choicest traditions 
 now proudly referred to by the students and graduates of Dartmouth. 
 He did not occupy ten minutes in his address ; but in that short space 
 of time was concentrated more thought and emotion, more elevated 
 and touching eloquence, than in any similar speech of which the Com- 
 mencements of our American colleges preserve a record. We are 
 told by old men, who heard it when they were boys, that it gave 
 promise of every thing which Choate afterwards achieved. Though 
 " pale, wasted by fever, with hardly strength enough to stand on the 
 platform," the spirit of what he said was so noble, and the "tones of 
 his voice so surpassingly tender and affectionate," that the whole audi- 
 ence, young and old, were entirely overcome and swept away by his 
 eloquence ; and prominent in the audience was no less a man than 
 Daniel Webster. 
 
 After graduating, Choate spent a year in the college, filling the 
 office of tutor. There never was a better teacher ; for he not only 
 ///formed, but /'//spired, the students submitted to his guidance. His 
 own enthusiasm for learning and literature became contagious. Some 
 tutors only impart knowledge ; but he not only imparted knowledge,
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF RUFUS CHOATE. 283 
 
 but inflamed his pupils with a passionate love of knowledge. Those 
 he taught soon became his friends, and master and scholar joyously- 
 worked together. There was no insubordination in his classes. 
 
 A solid farmer, once attending a political meeting where one of 
 the speakers was violently hissed, declared to a friend near by, " The 
 people here have no respect for that talkative fellow, because there is 
 no respect in him." Choate had that quality in him which ever com- 
 manded respect. But the great peculiarity of his teaching was this : 
 that, in communicating knowledge, he communicated with it his own 
 ardent and powerful nature ; that is, he communicated himself. Any 
 one of the students, whose mind came into vital contact with his, might 
 have exclaimed, with the poet, — 
 
 " He was like the sun, giving me light, 
 Pouring into the caves of my young brain 
 Knowledge from his bright fountains."
 
 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 By LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 
 
 AS I count it the greatest honor and happiness of my life to have 
 known Mr. Emerson, I gladly accede to a request for such recollec- 
 tions as may be of interest. My first remembrance is of the morning 
 when I was sent to inquire for little Waldo, then lying very ill. His 
 father came to me so worn with watching, and changed by sorrow, 
 that I was startled, and could only stammer out my message. 
 
 " Child, he is dead," was his answer. 
 
 Then the door closed, and I ran home to tell the sad tidings. I 
 was only eight years old, and that was my first glimpse of a great 
 grief ; but I never have forgotten the anguish that made a familiar 
 face so tragical, and gave those few words more pathos than the sweet 
 lamentation of the "Threnody." 
 
 Later, when we went to school with the little Emersons in their 
 father's barn, I remember many happy times when the illustrious papa 
 was our good playfellow. Often piling us into a bedecked hay-cart, he 
 took us to berry, bathe, or picnic at Walden, making our day charming 
 and memorable by showing us the places he loved, the wood-people 
 Thoreau had introduced to him, or the wild-flowers whose hidden 
 homes he had discovered. So that when years afterward we read of 
 "the sweet Rhodora in the wood," and "the burly, dozing humblebee," 
 or laughed over "The Mountain and the Squirrel," we recognized old 
 friends, and thanked him for the delicate truth and beauty which made 
 them immortal for us and others. 
 
 When the book-mania fell upon me at fifteen, I used to venture 
 into Mr. Emerson's library, and ask what I should read, never con- 
 scious of the audacity of my demand, so genial was my welcome. His 
 284
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 285 
 
 kind hand opened to me the riches of Shakspeare, Dante, Goethe, and 
 Carlyle ; and I gratefully recall the sweet patience with which he led 
 me round the book-lined room till "the new and very interesting 
 book " was found, or the indulgent smile he wore when I proposed 
 something far above my comprehension. 
 
 "Wait a little for that," he said. "Meantime try this ; and, if you 
 like it, come again." 
 
 For many of these wise books I am waiting still, very patiently ; 
 because in his own I have found the truest delight, the best inspiration 
 of my life. When these same precious volumes were tumbled out of 
 the window, while his house was burning some years ago, as I stood 
 guarding the scorched, wet pile, Mr. Emerson passed by, and, survey- 
 ing the devastation with philosophic calmness, only said, in answer to 
 my lamentations, — 
 
 " I see my library under a new aspect. Could you tell me where 
 my good neighbors have flung my boots ? " 
 
 In the tribulations of later life, this faithful house-friend was an 
 earthly Providence, conferring favors so beautifully that they were no 
 burden, and giving such sympathy, in joy and sorrow, that very ten- 
 der ties were knit between this beneficent nature and the grateful 
 hearts he made his own. Acquaintance with such a man is an educa- 
 tion in itself, for "the essence of greatness is the perception that 
 virtue is enough;" and, living what he wrote, his influence purified 
 and brightened like sunshine. 
 
 Many a thoughtful young man and woman owe to Emerson the 
 spark that kindled their highest aspirations, and showed them how to 
 make the conduct of life a helpful lesson, not a blind struggle. 
 
 " For simple maids and noble youth 
 Are welcome to the man of truth : 
 Most welcome they who need him most ; 
 They feed the spring which they exhaust, 
 
 For greater need 
 
 Draws better deed." 
 
 He was, in truth, like his own Saadi, — a cheerer of men's hearts." 
 " Friendship," " Love," " Self-Reliance," " Heroism," and " Com- 
 pensation," among the essays, have become to many readers as pre- 
 cious as Christian's scroll ; and certain poems live in the memory as 
 sacred as hymns, so helpful and inspiring are they. No better books 
 for earnest young people can be found. The truest words are often
 
 286 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 the simplest ; and, when wisdom and virtue go hand in hand, none 
 need fear to listen, learn, and love. 
 
 The marble walk that leads to his hospitable door has been trodden 
 by the feet of many pilgrims from all parts of the world, drawn thither 
 by their love and reverence for him. In that famous study, his towns- 
 people have had the privilege of seeing many of the great and good 
 men and women of our time, and learning of their gracious host the 
 finest lessons of true courtesy. I have often seen him turn from 
 distinguished guests, to say a wise or kindly word to some humble 
 worshipper sitting modestly in a corner, content merely to look and 
 listen, and who went away to cherish that memorable moment long 
 and gratefully. 
 
 Here, too, in the pleasant room, with the green hills opposite, and 
 the pines murmuring musically before the windows, Emerson wrote 
 essays more helpful than most sermons ; lectures which created the 
 lyceum ; poems full of power and sweetness ; and, better than song 
 or sermon, has lived a life so noble, true, and beautiful, that its wide- 
 spreading influence is felt on both sides of the sea. 
 
 In all reforms he was among the foremost on the side of justice 
 and progress. When Faneuil Hall used to be a scene of riot and 
 danger in anti-slavery days, I remember sitting up aloft, an excited 
 girl, among the loyal women who never failed to be there ; and how 
 they always looked for that serene face on the platform, and found 
 fresh courage in the mere sight of the wisest man in America, stand- 
 ing shoulder to shoulder with the bravest. When woman's suffrage 
 was most unpopular, his voice and pen spoke for the just cause, 
 undaunted by the fear of ridicule which silences so many. 
 
 His own simple, abstemious habits were his best testimony in 
 favor of temperance in all things ; while, in religion, he believed that 
 each soul must choose its own aids, and prove the vitality of its faith 
 by high thinking and holy living. 
 
 When travelling in various countries, I found his fame had gone 
 before ; and people were eager to hear something of the Concord poet, 
 seer, and philosopher. In a little town upon the Rhine, where our 
 party paused for a night, unexpectedly delayed, two young Germans, 
 reading the word Boston on the labels of our trunks as they stood in 
 the yard of the inn, begged to come in and see the Americans ; and 
 their first question was, — 
 
 "Tell us about Emerson." 
 
 We gladly told them what they asked ; and they listened as
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 287 
 
 eagerly as we did to any thing we could hear concerning their great 
 countryman, Goethe. 
 
 A letter once came to me from the Far West, in which a girl asked 
 what she should read to build up a noble character. It was a remark- 
 able letter ; and, when I inquired what books she most desired, she 
 answered, "All of Emerson's : he helps me most." 
 
 A prisoner just from Concord jail came to see me on his release, 
 and proved to be an intelligent, book-loving young man, who had been 
 led into crime by his first fit of intoxication. In talking with him, he 
 said Emerson's books were a comfort to him, and he had spent some 
 of the money earned in prison to buy certain volumes to take with 
 him as guides and safeguards for the future. 
 
 In England his honored name opened many doors to us, and we 
 felt as proud of our acquaintance with him as Englishmen feel of the 
 medals with which their Queen decorates them ; so widely was he 
 known, so helpful was his influence, so ennobling the mere reflection 
 of his virtue and his genius. Longfellow was beloved by children ; 
 and of Emerson it might be said, as of Plato, " He walks with his head 
 among the stars, yet carries a blessing in his heart for every little 
 child." 
 
 When he returned from his second visit to Europe, after his house 
 was burned, he was welcomed by the school-children, who lined his 
 passage from the cars to the carriage, where a nosegay of blooming 
 grandchildren awaited him ; and escorted by a smiling troop of neigh- 
 bors, old and young, he was conducted under green arches to his 
 house. Here they sang " Sweet Home," gave welcoming cheers, and 
 marched away to come again soon after to a grand house-warming in 
 the old mansion which had been so well restored that nothing seemed 
 changed. 
 
 Many a gay revel has been held under the pines, whole schools 
 taking possession of the poet's premises ; and many a child will gladly 
 recall hereafter the paternal face that smiled on them, full of interest 
 in their gambols, and of welcome for the poorest. Mrs. Emerson, 
 from her overflowing garden, planted flowers along the roadside, and 
 in the plot of ground before the nearest schoolhouse, to beautify the 
 children's daily life. Sweeter and more imperishable than these will 
 be the recollections of many kindnesses bestowed by one, who, in the 
 truest sense of the word, was a friend to all. 
 
 As he lay dying, children stopped to ask if he were better ; and 
 all the sunshine faded out of the little faces when the sad answer
 
 288 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 came. Very willing feet roamed the woods for green garlands to 
 decorate the old church where he would come for the last time ; busy 
 hands worked till midnight, that every house should bear some token 
 of mourning ; Spring gave him her few early flowers and budding 
 boughs from the haunts that will know him no more ; and old and 
 young forgot, for a little while, their pride in the illustrious man, to 
 sorrow for the beloved friend and neighbor. 
 
 Life did not sadden his cheerful philosophy ; success could not 
 spoil his exquisite simplicity ; age could not dismay him, and he met 
 death with sweet serenity. 
 
 He wrote, " Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing 
 can bring you peace but the triumph of principles." And this well- 
 earned peace transfigured the beautiful dead face so many eyes beheld 
 with tender reverence, seeming to assure us that our august friend 
 and master had passed into the larger life, for which he was ready, 
 still to continue, — 
 
 " Without hasting, without rest, 
 Lifting Better up to Best ; 
 Planting seeds of knowledge pure, 
 Through earth to ripen, through heaven endure."
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 By J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 A LITTLE more than sixty-eight years ago, in the city of Port- 
 land, Me., — which, by the way, was not a city then, — an impor- 
 tant literary event took place ; though surely nobody was aware of its 
 importance at the time, — with the exception, perhaps, of one small 
 boy, — and the world has not rung with it since. The said small boy, 
 aged ten, stole out of his father's house one evening, with an agitating 
 secret in his breast, and something precious in his breast-pocket. 
 That something was a copy of verses, — a little, a very little, poem, — 
 which he had written by stealth, and which he was now going to drop 
 into the letter-box of the newspaper-office on the corner. 
 
 More than once he walked by the door, fearing to be seen doing 
 so audacious a deed. But hope inspired him ; and running to the edit- 
 or's box, when nobody was near to observe him, he stood on his toes, 
 and, reaching up, dropped the poem in. He hurried home with a 
 fluttering heart. But the next evening he walked by the office again, 
 and, from the opposite side of the street, looked up at the printers at 
 their work. It was summer-time, and the windows were open ; and 
 seeing the compositors in their shirt-sleeves, each with a shaded lamp 
 over his case, making a little halo of hope and romance to the boy's 
 eyes, he said to himself, " Maybe they are printing my poem ! " 
 
 When the family newspaper came, and he carried it to a secret cor- 
 ner, and opened it with hope and fear, — sure enough, heading the 
 poet's corner, and looking strange, but, oh ! so beautiful in print, there 
 were his precious verses ! 
 
 Many years after, he told me the story of this first literary venture 
 much as I have told it here. That earliest poem had been followed 
 by works which had become as familiar as household words in the 
 mouths of English-speaking people all over the world. Honor and 
 
 289
 
 290 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 fame were his in full measure. But he said, with a smile, " I don't 
 think any other literary success in my life had made me quite so happy 
 since." 
 
 The poet Longfellow came of a good family of English stock. His 
 great-grandfather was a blacksmith. Perhaps he had this sturdy ances- 
 tor in mind when he wrote his poem on "The Village Blacksmith" so 
 long afterwards, — though the scene of it was Cambridge, — and drew 
 this moral : — 
 
 " Each morning sees some task begin, 
 Each evening sees it close : 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thus, at the flaming forge of life, 
 Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought.' 
 
 The Portland blacksmith sent one of his ten children to Harvard 
 College, and thus in the grandfather began that liberal culture which 
 was to flower and bear fruit in the author of "Evangeline." The 
 father was also a graduate of Harvard, and was, in his day, a leading 
 citizen and lawyer of Portland and a member of Congress. 
 
 The poet's mother was a descendant of John Alden of " Mayflower " 
 and Pilgrim fame, whose wooing of the "damsel Priscilla" for his 
 friend, "the famous Captain of Plymouth," forms the subject of "The 
 Courtship of Miles Standish." John himself, it will be remembered, 
 was in love with Priscilla. 
 
 " But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, 
 Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, 
 Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, 
 Said, in a tremulous voice, ' Why don't you speak for yourself, John ? ' " 
 
 The poet was born in Portland, on the twenty-seventh day of Feb- 
 ruary, 1807. He was a happy, healthy, studious child, fond of boyish 
 sports, but fonder still of books, especially books of poetry and classic 
 prose. He entered Bovvdoin College in his fourteenth year, and gradu- 
 ated at eighteen, the second in rank in his class. The college after- 
 wards bore the highest testimony to his fine literary scholarship, by 
 creating a chair of modern languages and literature, expressly that he 
 might be invited to fill it. He had, at first, thought of the law ; but
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 291 
 
 this call from his Alma Mater opened to him a far more congenial 
 career. He joyfully accepted it, but, before assuming his new duties, 
 visited Europe, where he spent four years, chiefly in Germany, Italy, 
 France, and Spain, studying the languages and literatures of those 
 countries, and preparing for his university-work. 
 
 He was also preparing for other and far higher work, — storing his 
 mind with beautiful thoughts and images, and perfecting that simple 
 ease of expression which was to form so lovely a characteristic of his 
 style. 
 
 The independent literary career, which enables so many nowadays 
 to win bread, and perhaps fortune, by the pen, was then hardly known 
 in America. There 
 were no great maga- 
 zines and newspapers 
 of large circulation 
 to pay liberal prices 
 for articles ; and, in 
 order to get money 
 while he was earning 
 fame, the man of let- 
 ters must edit a news- 
 paper, like Bryant ; 
 have a clerkship, like 
 Halleck ; a place in 
 the Custom House, 
 like Hawthorne ; or a 
 professorship in a col- 
 lege, like Longfellow. 
 
 He became a contributor to the best periodicals of those days. 
 But the pay he received was ridiculously small. In later years, when 
 editors were glad to get a contribution from him on any terms, he 
 once spoke of having just received for a poem a price which seemed 
 to him very large. I replied that it did not seem to me excessive, 
 considering the name and fame that went with it. 
 
 "Ah ! " said he, "you young fellows " (to be called by him a young 
 fellow was delightfully flattering to my gray hairs) "have had the 
 luck to come along at a time when good prices prevail. You would 
 think differently if you had written as many poems for five dollars 
 apiece as I have." 
 
 He continued his connection with Bowdoin until his growing fame 
 
 Birthplace of Longfellow.
 
 292 HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 
 
 as an author and translator, quite as much as his reputation as a 
 teacher, excellent as that was, procured his appointment as professor 
 of modern languages in Harvard University, which honorable position 
 he retained from 1835 until 1854. After another year of travel and 
 study abroad, he settled down to his varied pursuits in Cambridge, 
 which remained his home ever afterwards. In his first year there, he 
 boarded in the old Craigie House, — a colonial mansion which had 
 known vicissitudes of war and fortune, famous as having once been 
 the headquarters of Washington, but destined to be more famous still, 
 in later years, as the home of the poet. The spaciousness of this old 
 house, its beautiful situation overlooking the broad valley where — 
 
 " The flooded Charles . . . 
 Writes the last letter of his name," 
 
 and, more than all, perhaps, its historical associations, charmed the 
 young professor's fancy ; and, after the death of the landlady, he pur- 
 chased it. There he lived an almost ideal life, amidst objects of beauty 
 and curiosity by which he had gradually surrounded himself, the centre 
 of a group of friends, many of whom were illustrious, enjoying a 
 charming domestic life, and producing the works which delighted the 
 world. 
 
 This happiness was interrupted by the tragical death of his wife, — 
 a noble and beautiful woman, and the mother of his five children. A 
 drop of flaming wax, which she was melting at a candle to amuse two 
 of them, fell upon her dress. What a sorrow her loss must have been 
 to him, nobody knew from any thing he ever said or ever wrote. He 
 did not send forth a wail of woe in his works, as is the way with 
 feebler poets who suffer, or imagine they suffer. His affliction revealed 
 itself only in words of deeper faith and consolation, breathed forth in 
 mellower verse. 
 
 He was sought by all sorts of people in his Cambridge home. 
 They came literally from all over the world. When the Emperor of 
 Brazil visited this country in the centennial year, his first question, on 
 landing in New York, was, " Where is Longfellow ? " Of course, many 
 came from frivolous motives ; and he used to tell an amusing story of 
 some English visitors, who said to him, with rather astounding frank- 
 ness, — 
 
 " As there are no ruins in this country, we thought we would come 
 and see you." 
 
 lie was of medium height, with strong, symmetrical features, mild
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 293 
 
 blue eyes under fine brows, and hair and beard of patriarchal white- 
 ness in his later years. Charles Kingsley said of him, in 1868, " Long- 
 fellow is far handsomer and nobler than his portraits make him. I do 
 not think I ever saw a finer human face." This might have been truly 
 said of him to the last. 
 
 Longfellow's Early Home. 
 
 The same gentle and humane spirit which characterized his writ- 
 ings showed itself also in the manners of the man. He had the 
 simplicity which belongs to strong and true natures. He never re- 
 membered, and his affability made you forget, that you were in the 
 presence of one of the most eminent of living men. His fine sym- 
 pathy prompted him to meet people on their own ground of thought 
 and interest, and to anticipate their wishes. His ways with children 
 were delightful. I well remember his setting the musical clock in his
 
 294 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 hall to playing its tunes for a little girl while he was occupied with her 
 elders, because he could not bear that she should not also be enter- 
 tained. On another occasion, when the same little girl and her 
 younger sistet, in their own home, approached with bashful pleasure 
 as he held out his arms to them, he broke down all barriers at once by 
 saying, — 
 
 " Where are your dolls ? I want you to show me your dolls. Not 
 the fine ones, which you keep for company, but those you love best, 
 and play with every day." 
 
 Before the mother could interfere, they had taken him at his word, 
 and brought the shabby little favorites with battered noses, and were 
 eagerly telling Mr. Longfellow their names and histories, while he 
 questioned them with an interest which wholly won their childish 
 hearts. 
 
 It was some time before this that he brought a friend to the house ; 
 
 and our W , then a boy of thirteen, took us out on the lake in his 
 
 boat. The friend, who was in feeble health, wished to pull one oar. 
 
 W , full of health and spirits, pulled the other, and pulled too hard 
 
 for him. He continued to do so, in spite of my remonstrance, when 
 Mr. Longfellow said, — 
 
 " Let him row in his own way. He enjoys it, and we mustn't 
 interfere with a boy's happiness. It makes no difference to us whether 
 we go forward, or only around and around." 
 
 He seemed to consider the happiness of the young as something 
 sacred. 
 
 He was hospitable and helpful to other and younger writers. How 
 many are indebted to him for words of encouragement and cheer ! 
 The last letter I ever received from him was written during his illness 
 in the winter, when he took the trouble to send me an exceedingly 
 kind word regarding something of mine he had just seen in a maga- 
 zine, and which had chanced to please him. He was tolerant to the 
 last degree of other people's faults. I never heard him speak with 
 any thing like impatience of anybody, except a certain class of critics 
 who injure reputations by sitting in judgment upon works they have 
 not the heart to feel, or the sense to understand. 
 
 Some kind friend once sent me a review in which a poor little 
 volume of my own verses was scalped and tomahawked with savage 
 glee. Turning the leaf, I was consoled to see a volume of Long- 
 fellow's treated in the same slashing style. For I reflected, "The 
 critic who strikes at him blunts the weapon with which he would wound
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 295 
 
 others." Meeting him in a day or two, I found that some equally kind 
 friend had sent a copy of the review to him. Seeing that he was an- 
 noyed by it, I said, — 
 
 " I may well be disturbed when they try to blowlbut my small 
 lantern, but why should you care when they puff away at your star? " 
 
 He replied, " The ill-will of anybody hurts me. Besides, there are 
 some people who will believe what this man says. If he cannot speak 
 
 Longfellow s Home in Cambridge. 
 
 well of a book, why speak of it at all ? The best criticism of an un- 
 worthy book is silence." 
 
 He had suffered from abundant foolish and unjust criticism in 
 earlier days ; but his wise, calm spirit was never more than temporarily 
 ruffled by it. No meritorious work was ever more severely judged 
 than " Hiawatha " when it first appeared. But the sales were large. 
 It quickly became the most popular of all his works, and the reviewers 
 who had censured it joined in the later chorus of its praise. "Evan- 
 geline " had also been criticised, though less severely ; fault being 
 found particularly with the hexameters, which were declared to be un-
 
 296 HENRY WADSWOR2H LONGFELLOW. 
 
 suited for English verse. Nevertheless, the easy and flowing hexam- 
 eters, which relate that exquisitely beautiful story, continue to be read, 
 alike by the learned and the unlearned, with perennial delight. 
 
 From thaAevening so long ago, when the school-boy timidly 
 dropped his little copy of verses into the editor's box, to the 27th of 
 February, when school-children all over the land were celebrating his 
 seventy-fifth birthday, and the evening so soon after, when the voices 
 of those reciting his praises, and singing his songs, gave place to the 
 tolling of bells in cities and towns, — between that far-off time and 
 this, what a life of beauty and beneficence was lived ! what noble, 
 happy, and enduring work was done !
 
 THE COLLEGE LIFE OF PRESCOTT 
 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 By EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. 
 
 A SATIRICAL medical writer, in giving directions to children as 
 to the means of preserving their health, began with this ironical 
 declaration : " Look out that your father and mother, and your grand- 
 father and grandmother, had no transmissible disease, such as con- 
 sumption, gout, or scrofula." As if the poor boys and girls could 
 "look out " to evade causes of sickness existing long before they were 
 born ! 
 
 It may, however, be said of William H. Prescott, that, if he had 
 possessed the privilege of selecting his ancestors, he could not have 
 hit upon a better family than that from which he was descended. The 
 first of the Prescotts who emigrated from England to Massachusetts, 
 was a sturdy Puritan soldier by the name of John Prescott, who set- 
 tled in Lancaster, Mass., between 1640 and 1650, and acquired a con- 
 siderable amount of property in land, which he bravely defended from 
 the incursions of the Indians, who were his near neighbors. His sons 
 and grandsons seem to have had a similar strength of character, and 
 a similar soundness of body and mind. Into whatever they undertook, 
 they threw the whole energy of their natures ; and there is no record 
 that any one of them ever did any thing mean, base, or vicious. 
 
 The grandfather of the historian, a farmer in Pepperell, Mass., was 
 the Col. Prescott who threw up the redoubt at Bunker Hill, defended 
 it stoutly against the repeated attacks of the veteran English infantry, 
 and when compelled, by lack of ammunition, to retire from his posi- 
 tion, was the last person of his command to leave the spot he had so 
 skilfully and intrepidly defended. This Revolutionary hero had, for 
 
 his son, William Prescott, who, in his chosen profession of the law, 
 
 297
 
 298 COLLEGE LIFE OF PRESCOTT THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 gradually rose to be a counsellor of the first rank, who was universally 
 respected for his integrity, as well as for his learning and intelligence. 
 William Prescott was reckoned to have no superior at a bar where 
 Sullivan, Parsons, Dexter, Otis, and Webster were his competitors ; 
 and on retiring from his profession, after forty years of practice, he 
 was considered by such a judge as Daniel Webster to have stood "at 
 the head of the bar of Massachusetts for legal learning and attain- 
 ments." 
 
 William Hickling Prescott, the son of this distinguished lawyer, 
 was born in Salem, Mass., on May 4, 1796. 
 
 The Prescotts seem ever to have been as fortunate in their mothers 
 as in their fathers, and William was singularly blessed in this respect. 
 His mother was the embodiment of energy, good sense, and benefi- 
 cence. It is the universal testimony of all who knew her, that her life 
 seemed to be passed in doing good to others, and that self never was 
 prominent in any thing she thought, said, or did. She found her 
 happiness in promoting the happiness of her family and friends. Her 
 benevolence was instinctive, and she never appeared to think that 
 there was any virtue in the sacrifices she made of her own selfish 
 comfort in her unstinted devotion to the comfort and welfare of her 
 husband and children. Much more than this, she was, through life, 
 the friend of the friendless, the consoler of the sorrowful, the almoner 
 of the poor, the comforter of the sick and the wretched. 
 
 In Catholic countries she might have been elevated to the rank of 
 a saint ; but, though her conduct was regulated by deep religious con- 
 victions, she always expressed her religion in acts, not in words, and 
 seemed intent on saving her own soul by strenuous endeavors to save 
 others. And then, she differed from most popular notions of saints in 
 this, that she was as cheerful and joyous as she was benignant, and 
 had double the mere animal spirits of those women who never think 
 of any thing but the gratification of their own selfish desires. 
 
 The son of this large-brained father and great-hearted mother was 
 a pet from the moment of his birth. Indeed, his parents, whom he 
 loved almost as dearly as they loved him, allowed the boy a more than 
 ordinary degree of freedom. They did this that they might thus learn 
 what were his real qualities of mind and disposition, and obtain an 
 accurate knowledge of all the tendencies of his nature, so that they 
 could restrain what was bad, and stimulate what was good, in him. 
 
 This is a dangerous experiment in education ; but it has, at least, 
 the advantage of rendering needless the mean vice of lying, into
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF PRESCOTT THE HISTORIAN. 299 
 
 which many a boy falls from the fear that his faults will not be ten- 
 derly dealt with by his parents. As such a boy lies from cowardice, 
 his character is corrupted at the start ; and he goes on lying through- 
 out his life, believing that as he has escaped a number of wholesome 
 whippings in his childhood and youth by a glib denial of the little 
 offences he may have committed ; so, in his manhood, he relies on 
 hypocrisy and falsehood to cover up his graver violations of the laws 
 of morality and religion. 
 
 But William Prescott, from the moment he left his cradle, was of 
 an open nature, concealing nothing, fearing nothing, and trained ac- 
 cording to the rules of that method of education, which, though it 
 may not make a pupil a great scholar, tends to make him sincere, 
 honest, and brave. 
 
 His mother was, of course, his first and last instructor. But, at an 
 early age, he was sent to a day-school, kept by Miss Higginson, one 
 of the "gentlewomen" of Salem, descended from that Francis Hig- 
 ginson who came to the town in 1629, and who still enjoys the repu- 
 tation of being the founder of the churches of New England. In the 
 education of the young persons intrusted to her care, she disdained 
 the name of school-mistress, adopting that of school-mother ; and, in 
 the opinion of all the best people of Salem, she richly deserved the 
 title. 
 
 In 1803, at the age of seven, he was placed in the select private 
 school of the town, the teacher of which was a gentleman and scholar, 
 who seems to have anticipated many of the more modern and liberal 
 ideas which now guide the education of the young. This worthy 
 teacher was long affectionately remembered by several distinguished 
 men, who, as boys, had profited by his instruction, as the " Master 
 Knapp," who had not only imparted to them the rudiments of knowl- 
 edge, but had inspired them with the disinterested love of knowledge. 
 At this school William did not shine among Master Knapp's pupils. 
 From his cradle he loved books ; and stories which stirred his sensi- 
 bilities, and stimulated his imagination, affected him like realities of 
 his own experience. As a child, he would sometimes be so strongly 
 impressed by some grotesque fiction of ghosts, fairies, goblins, and 
 giants, that he would catch hold of his mother's gown, and follow her, 
 as her household duties led her to pass from one room to another, in 
 the fear of being left alone with the queer people that dwelt in his 
 brain, and which might, fo? all he knew, start out into actual existence, 
 unless he were protected from them by his mother's presence.
 
 300 COLLEGE LIFE OF FRESCO TT THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 But the love of reading what interests the mind, and the love of 
 study, which tasks it, are two different things ; and the systematic work 
 which a school-boy is called upon to perform did not agree with his 
 easy and somewhat indolent temperament. 
 
 In after-life, nothing in his character seemed more admirable to his 
 friends than his constant cheerfulness in circumstances which make 
 most men irritable, sulky, and morose ; and this cheerfulness was the 
 chastened survival of the riotous, frolicksome, animal spirits of his 
 babyhood and boyhood. At any rate, the dear boy could be made to 
 learn only what he desired to learn. His father must oftentimes have 
 been troubled in spirit in witnessing the lazy good-nature with'which 
 his bright son evaded exact studies, and resented attempts to make 
 him a systematic scholar. 
 
 Indeed, as a lad, William overflowed in nothing so much as in fun 
 and mischief. He even delighted in practical jokes, the most offen- 
 sive form of juvenile jocularity, and which, if such jokes do not origi- 
 nally spring from a malicious disposition, are apt, by indulgence in 
 them, to create it. He once brought down upon himself the severe 
 condemnation of his father by frightening a servant girl in the family 
 "half to death" by jumping out suddenly upon her from behind a 
 door. 
 
 It is plain that such freaks of hilarity have their source in a dis- 
 regard of the rights and feelings of others. Begun in boyhood in 
 mere thoughtlessness, they tend — if the spirit that prompts them con- 
 tinues into manhood — to make those who practise them find an odious 
 and ignoble delight in whatever inflicts mortification and pain on their 
 associates. But Prescott had sensitiveness of conscience as well as 
 hilarity of spirits. Once, before he was in his "teens," when his 
 mother was grieved at some fault which had probably sprung from 
 his love of fun, she directed him to read to her Dr. Channing's "Ser- 
 mon to Children." As he went on in his reading, says Professor Tick- 
 nor, " his lips began to quiver, and his voice to choke. He stopped, 
 and, with tears, said, — 
 
 " Mother, if I am ever a bad boy again, won't you set me to read- 
 ing that sermon ? " 
 
 In 1808 his father removed to Boston; and William was sent, at 
 the age of twelve, to the private school of the Rev. Dr. Gardiner, one 
 of the best classical scholars at that time in New England, and one of 
 the most genial of teachers. By Dr. Gardiner he was prepared for 
 college. Professor Ticknor was William's fellow-pupil ; and he tells
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF PRESCOTT THE HLSTORLAN. 301 
 
 us, in his delightful biography of Prescott, that the future historian 
 easily learned what was necessary to qualify him for admission to Har- 
 vard College, but learned little else. He was, however, an assiduous 
 and enthusiastic reader of miscellaneous literature. Southey's trans- 
 
 William H. Prescott 
 
 lation of the old romance of " Amadis de Gaula " took a specially 
 strong hold of his imagination. 
 
 He was unconsciously drawn by the bent of his genius to works, 
 the distinguishing merit of which was narrative. He thus insensibly 
 imbibed an idea of the style best suited to a narrator, — a style which 
 eventually made his own narratives of historical events as fascinating 
 as most romances. In the intervals, however, of this miscellaneous 
 reading and classical study, he and a fellow-pupil indulged in a great
 
 302 COLLEGE LIFE OF PRESCOTT THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 variety of boyish pranks. After going to a circus, for example, they 
 would attempt to imitate what had called forth their admiration ; and 
 a family cat, which they were training to go through some of the cir- 
 cus exercises, became dreadfully scorched in the operation. Then they 
 would devise games of battle, stimulated by newspaper accounts of the 
 European wars of the time. But., above all, they gloried in inventing 
 stories, each trying to excel the other in the novelty and wildness of 
 the persons and incidents they volubly poured forth from their fertile 
 imaginations. 
 
 In August, 1811, William was admitted to the sophomore class in 
 Harvard College. After his preliminary examination was over, he 
 wrote an account of it to his father. 
 
 " When we were first ushered into their [the examiners'] presence, 
 they looked like so many judges of the Inquisition. We were ordered 
 down into the parlor, almost frightened out of our wits, to be exam- 
 ined by each separately ; but we soon found them quite a pleasant sort 
 of chaps." 
 
 After the examination was over, and he was assured by Tutor 
 Frisbie that he had done himself a great deal of credit, he adds, — 
 
 " I feel myself twenty pounds lighter than I did yesterday." 
 
 Though entering Harvard College so easily, Prescott did not show 
 any disposition to excel in scholarship. He did his tasks, and noth- 
 ing more. The rest of his time he devoted to amusements. In 
 Greek and Latin he had been so thoroughly trained by Dr. Gardiner, 
 that he readily excelled the great majority of his fellow-students in his 
 acquaintance with those languages. In metaphysics, for which he had 
 a distaste, he still, by hard study, qualified himself to pass a respect- 
 able examination ; (but in mathematics he could "make no show at 
 all." Incapable of understanding the elements of the science, he at 
 first resorted to the dangerous "dodge" of committing his mathemati- 
 cal lessons to memory, without apprehending any meaning in the 
 words and signs he glibly recited ; but he soon was disgusted with this 
 appearance of knowing what he did not know, and he frankly con- 
 fided to his professor his hopeless ignorance of the very elements of 
 mathematics. 
 
 His professor, thus advised of his incompetency, graciously relieved 
 him from the task of pretending to understand what he was incapable 
 of understanding. 
 
 There is nothing more ruinous to the mind of the student than to 
 commit to memory mathematical demonstrations, of which he does
 
 COLLEGE LLFE OF PRESCOTT THE HISTORIAN. 303 
 
 not comprehend the principles on which they rest. Some students, 
 able in every other branch of study, though deficient in mathematical 
 perception, have been driven into insanity by following, through the 
 long years of their college life, the practice, at first adopted by Pres- 
 cott, of memorizing problems in the science, which he soon prudently 
 abandoned. 
 
 It is curious, that, throughout his college life, Prescott was continu- 
 ally making resolutions as to his conduct and studies. He recorded 
 these resolutions on paper, and showed them to his intimate friends. 
 By these, he said, his course in college was to be rigidly conformed. 
 When he violated them, which he often did, he formed new resolutions. 
 These had the same fate as their predecessors, though they were as 
 confidently intrusted to his associates as his first determinations. At 
 last, in despair, he told his friend Gardiner that he had come to one 
 resolution that he would never violate ; and this was, that hereafter he 
 would form no resolution at all. 
 
 Thus gay, bright, joyous, with a governing sentiment of duty which 
 he did not consistently follow out in conduct, William glided on through 
 the first eighteen months of his college career. He knew, that, with- 
 out strenuous work, he was sure to have the means of supporting him- 
 self in a life of intellectual idleness ; because his indulgent father had 
 made a fortune in a hard, vexatious, and continuous life of intellectual 
 labor. 
 
 William's career as an historian might have utterly failed, were it 
 not for a calamity which at first seemed to make him a hopeless 
 invalid for life. 
 
 The students of Harvard appear to have been a rough set in 181 3. 
 The officers of the college had left the dinner-hall on one momentous 
 day ; and the students, before departing, indulged in some eccentric 
 freaks. Prescott was not engaged in the disturbance ; but, as he was 
 going out of the hall, he turned his head to see what was going on, 
 when a large, hard piece of bread, hurled by a student without any 
 reference to a mark, struck his left open eye, and he fell senseless. 
 The missile not only destroyed the sight of the eye, but produced a 
 concussion of the brain. For weeks Prescott was confined to his bed. 
 His full, ruddy face became pale and shrunken, his whole system was 
 reduced to a pitiable state of weakness ; but his mind remained clear, 
 and his innate cheerfulness of disposition bore him triumphantly 
 through all the trials of his illness. 
 
 When he recovered, he returned to Harvard, and, with the one eye
 
 304 COLLEGE LLFE OF PRESCOTT THE HLSTORLAN. 
 
 left to him, prosecuted his studies with the simple resolution to gradu- 
 ate respectably. He succeeded in establishing his rank as a Greek 
 and Latin scholar, and as a proficient in English literature. He was 
 chosen by his class a member of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, then a 
 special title of honor ; and, when he graduated, he was selected to be 
 one of the "orators" at Commencement, and recited, with great ap- 
 plause, a Latin poem on Hope, of his own composition. His parents, 
 who idolized their ; on, spread a great tent on the college-grounds, and 
 feasted therein five hundred guests, all gathered to congratulate the 
 successful graduate, and to show their respect for the Prescott family, 
 which eminently deserved to be respected. 
 
 Up to this time, William Prescott had exhibited a certain levity of 
 character which was considered fatal to his success in life. The stu- 
 dent who carelessly threw the bit of hard bread which embittered the 
 whole of Prescott's life, never showed the least compunction for his 
 heedless act. During Prescott's severe illness, he expressed no sym- 
 pathy for his victim. He thought that Prescott did not know his 
 assailant. But Prescott did know him. He concealed this informa- 
 tion from his most intimate friends ; and it was only afterwards, when 
 he was suffering from the worst results of the blow, in partial blind- 
 ness and acute rheumatic pains, that he had an opportunity to indulge 
 in a truly Christian revenge. 
 
 The man who had made Prescott's life uncomfortable was in need 
 of his recommendation to make himself comfortable for life. Prescott 
 gave it cordially, without any thought of the injury he had sustained 
 from the culprit, who never had the decency to express the slightest 
 sympathy for the sufferings of his benefactor. The name of this per- 
 son has been charitably suppressed ; but the act of Prescott, in thus 
 making the fortune of the man who had so cruelly injured him, 
 deserves to be remembered as a signal instance of Christian virtue. 
 
 The wonder of Prescott's career as an historian, shown in his vic- 
 tory over obstacles which are commonly considered insurmountable, 
 attracted the sympathy of all men of intellect and learning in the 
 leading countries of Europe, — Germany, France, and Great Britain. 
 His own character became more vigorous as he cheerfully submitted 
 to the self-imposed drudgery of research into historical documents, in 
 obtaining which he lavished money as liberally as he lavished time, 
 in reducing them to order. His histories now rank among the classics 
 of American literature. 
 
 And it may be said, in conclusion, that those favored friends and
 
 COLLEGE LIFE OF PRESCOTT THE HISTORIAN. 305 
 
 acquaintances who knew him personally will never forget the beautiful 
 simplicity of his character, the modesty with which his hard-earned 
 laurels were worn, and the charming courtesy of manner, springing 
 from the instinctive kindliness of his heart, and overflowing on rich 
 and poor alike, which justly entitled him to be considered one of the 
 finest gentlemen of his time.
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 By JAMES PARTON. 
 
 IN an old Boston newspaper, published during the early, anxious 
 months of the war of 1812, this advertisement may still be 
 read : — 
 
 " New Printing-Office. Nathaniel Willis, having returned to this his native town, 
 and purchased an entire new assortment of printing materials, respectfully solicits 
 a share of the patronage at his office, Exchange Building, Devonshire Street. Print- 
 ing in its various branches will be executed with neatness, accuracy, and despatch. 
 In the press, and shortly will be published, ' Redemption,' a poem in eight books, by 
 Joseph Swain of Walworth, England. Also will soon be published a ' Guide to Christ,' 
 composed for the use of young Ministers and Enquirers on their Way to Zion. By 
 the Rev. Solomon Stoddard of North Hampton Wanted, an apprentice to the 
 printing business." 
 
 His son, Nathaniel P., born in Portland in 1806, was then six years 
 of age, — a pretty, captivating child, with an abundance of auburn 
 curls, such as mothers dote upon 
 
 The business and the boy grew together for some years, when an 
 event occurred of very great importance, which I know not how prop- 
 erly to relate in a few words. In the house of Nathaniel Willis the 
 great subject of thought and conversation was religion, and religion 
 of the old-fashioned Orthodox type. The family attended Park-street 
 Church, which saucy Unitarian boys of the period called Brimstone 
 Corner. The Park-street boys, on their part, were not over respect- 
 ful to sons of Unitarians. Ralph Waldo Emerson was one of these ; 
 and, in later years, our poet had no recollection of him, except that 
 he was "one of the boys whose fathers were Unitarians." 
 
 When this boy was about twelve years of age, there was a famous 
 revival at Park-street Church, the meetings of which he attended. 
 His susceptible nature was powerfully wrought upon, and he joined 
 the church. 
 
 306
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 307 
 
 As he grew toward maturity, his personal attractions became more 
 remarkable. With an uncommonly tall, symmetrical form, he had a 
 blooming countenance, and a certain style in his bearing and demeanor 
 which is sometimes called "aristocratic," but which is, in fact, more 
 often seen in the offspring of workingmen than of lords. It results 
 from physical conditions, which the ordinary industrial life of man 
 favors quite as much as the life of ease and luxury. 
 
 He began now to frequent the literary and elegant circles of Bos- 
 ton, where he was much admired and caressed. Doubtless the persons 
 composing those circles were virtuous and honorable, but the restraints 
 of Park Street were not known among them ; and we can all easily 
 understand how his agreeable associates gradually gave him a relish 
 for social pleasures, particularly for the drama and the dance. With- 
 out dwelling on this change, I will merely say that his new tastes 
 gained the ascendency, and estranged him from his early principles. 
 
 Meanwhile, it began to be whispered about that this elegant stu- 
 dent at the Latin School was a poet also. Scraps of verse, in his neat 
 and careful hand, were found ; and one day, when he was about six- 
 teen, he sent his mother a little poem, addressed to herself, which was, 
 at least, very affectionate in tone, and harmonious to the ear. To the 
 end of his long life of nearly ninety years, his father preserved, in an 
 old scrap-book, the first prose composition of the lad that was ever 
 printed. It was in the form of a contribution to his father's paper, 
 "The Boston Recorder," and was entitled, "A Hint to the Ladies." 
 He wrote in the character of an old gentleman, who was in the habit 
 of giving up his seat to ladies in church and lecture-rooms. This prac- 
 tice, it seems, led to an inconvenience ; for, when it came time to take 
 the collection, the seats would be occupied by ladies who had no money 
 with them, and hence the politeness of the gentlemen robbed the con- 
 tribution-box. The imaginary old gentleman proposed a remedy. 
 
 " Let every lady, who comes to a meeting for charity, come prepared to give 
 something, and thus make some remuneration for the loss occasioned to the society 
 by the acquisition of her seat. Let it not be given any more as a reason for a small 
 contribution, that the house was filled with ladies.'''' 
 
 This idea was humorously expanded in an article of considerable 
 length, which shows gleams of the future journalist. It was just the 
 kind of communication that an editor of the period was glad to get. 
 
 At an early age he went from the Boston Latin School to Yale 
 College ; and there it was that he became famous. I do not think that
 
 308 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 he was ever a laborious student, nor even a great reader. He had little 
 taste for the acquisition of knowledge, and little curiosity even to know 
 what poets and authors had done in the days before him. In fact, men 
 who produce literature are not apt to care very much for the literature 
 of other men and times. But he was always scribbling ; and one day 
 he sent off to his father's paper in Boston, a poem on the " Sacrifice 
 of Abraham," to which he appended the signature of Roy. It began 
 thus : — 
 
 " Morn breaketh in the East. The purple clouds 
 
 Are putting on their gold and violet, 
 
 To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. 
 
 Sleep is upon the waters and the wind ; 
 
 And Nature, from the wavy forest leaf 
 
 To her majestic master, sleeps." 
 
 It was certainly an extraordinary production for a youth of twenty 
 years ; though it is not in the Oriental manner, and still less in the 
 spirit of the story as related in the Bible. It attracted immediate and 
 general attention. It was copied everywhere, and praised by almost 
 every one. A long series of poems, in a similar strain, and with the 
 same signature, followed this production, each of which appeared to 
 increase the reputation of the young poet. There was a poem on 
 "The Leper," on "Absalom," on "David's Grief for his Child," on 
 "The Baptism of Christ," on "The Widow of Nain," and others, many 
 of which soon got into the school-books, and became familiar to two 
 generations of young lovers of poetry. 
 
 In college, too, he won a prize of fifty dollars offered for the best 
 poem by the publisher of a gift-book ; and no sooner had he gradu- 
 ated, than he found publishers desirous to employ his pen. Peter 
 Parley engaged him to edit periodicals ; and he attempted himself to 
 found a magazine, " The American Monthly," which, however, did not 
 succeed. 
 
 Sixty years ago, when N. P. Willis came upon the stage of life, 
 literature offered no safe and good career; and far better would it have 
 been, perhaps, if this gifted young man had chosen another profession 
 to live by, and looked to literature for relief and recreation. Lured 
 on by the dazzling popularity of his youthful productions, he made his 
 way to New York, where he formed a connection with George P. 
 Morris, editor of a literary weekly, called "The Mirror," which was 
 then struggling for life. 
 
 Like all other Americans, especially young Americans, and, above
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 309 
 
 all, Americans addicted to literature, he longed for Europe. It also 
 occurred to his practical and prudent partner, that this young man 
 could write from Europe extremely taking letters for "The Mirror." 
 The grand difficulty was to raise the money to get him across the 
 ocean, and to keep him going while he was there. I have often heard 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 the editor of "The Mirror" relate, in his hearty, jovial way, the mani- 
 fold troubles they had in raising the five hundred dollars which was 
 deemed the smallest sum that would answer for a beginning. This 
 amount was the capital upon which the young poet set up in the busi- 
 ness of a traveller, and his editor agreed to send him ten dollars each 
 for his letters. 
 
 Thus provided, he set sail in October, 1832, being then twenty-six 
 years of age, in a packet-ship bound for Havre. He began to earn 
 his ten dollars a week on board as soon as he had recovered from his
 
 3IO NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 seasickness ; and soon his letters appeared in "The Mirror," under the 
 very happy title of " Pencillings by the Way." The very first letter 
 proved the wisdom of the editor in sending him to the other side of the 
 ocean; for such a paper as "The Mirror," which aimed and professed 
 to give only the pleasing and prosperous aspects of life, no letters 
 could be better than these most graphic and elaborate "Pencillings." 
 
 At this day they have something of the interest of a histrionic 
 performance, which is highly comic to one who has been behind the 
 scenes. Here was a young American, rubbing along through Europe 
 on the slenderest resources, eking out his weekly revenue by an occa- 
 sional poem or story, but always in mortal fear of coming to the bot- 
 tom of his purse ; and all the time he wrote in the tone and style of 
 a young prince, conveying the impression that castles and palaces, 
 chariots and horses, and all the splendors of aristocratic life, were just 
 as familiar to him as the air he breathed. 
 
 He spent four or five years abroad, during which he saw, as Goethe 
 says, "what his eye took with it the means of seeing." He saw the 
 outside of its gay and splendid life, and this he described in his " Pen- 
 cillings " with a vividness and grace which have rarely been equalled. 
 I can hardly conceive of any thing better of its kind than the letters 
 in which he describes his visit to the castle of the Duke of Gordon in 
 Scotland. If they give but the brilliant aspect, it was because the 
 writer was completely bewitched with that sumptuous and elegant 
 existence. He was under a spell which blinded him to the true nature 
 of what he looked upon, and caused him to give a report of it which 
 has misled, in some degree, the American people ever since. The 
 " Pencillings," however, were delicious to the readers of that time ; and 
 they have by no means yet lost their charm. 
 
 His connection with George P. Morris lasted to the end of his 
 days. For many years they conducted, with considerable success, 
 the " Home Journal," which aimed to report and describe the graceful 
 and pleasing side of civilization, particularly what is called "Society." 
 It was a legitimate field of enterprise. It is interesting to the toiling, 
 anxious sons of men to be told what a pretty and interesting thing life 
 is to people who have nothing to do but to make it pretty and inter- 
 esting. I think if I were a cobbler in an open-air stall, or kept a pea- 
 nut-stand in the streets, I should like to be informed, once a week, that 
 there are people in the world to whom life is pleasing, graceful, clean, 
 abundant, and full of charm. If only one family in the world were 
 able to live in a lofty and beautiful manner, free from corroding cares
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 311 
 
 and narrowing frugalities, I should like to be able, through the magic 
 of literature, to enjoy the spectacle of their happiness. 
 
 So I think the aim of the " Home Journal " was legitimate ; and 
 there will always be room for such a periodical in a civilized country, 
 if it is conducted in a humane, manly, and democratic spirit. 
 
 During the last fifteen years of the life of this literary artist, his 
 powers were much impaired by an incurable malady, which brought 
 him to a premature grave in 1867, when he was but sixty-one years of 
 age. 
 
 In the library catalogues we find a long list of works attributed to 
 his pen. Most of these are volumes made up from his ceaseless con- 
 tributions to magazines and to his own journal. Of these, the "Pen- 
 cillings by the Way " have still an interest for us ; and they may, 
 perhaps, be read by posterity. The volume of his poems, and that 
 alone, enjoys considerable popularity. 
 
 For the benefit of young writers, I may add that Mr. Willis never 
 slighted his work, but bestowed upon every thing he did, even upon 
 slight and transient paragraphs, the most careful labor, making endless 
 erasures and emendations. On an average, he erased one line out of 
 every three that he wrote ; and, on one page of his editorial writing, 
 there were but three lines left unaltered. He wrote very legibly, too, 
 and gave no printer cause to complain of him. Even his erasures 
 were made with a certain wavy elegance, and done so effectually that 
 no one could make out what had been written. 
 
 I said to him once that he had been " born on the wrong side of 
 the Atlantic." He seemed better adapted to a more picturesque civ- 
 ilization than ours, and had little relish for the plain and strenuous life 
 of his countrymen.
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S COLLEGE 
 
 DAYS. 
 
 By G. P. LATHROP. 
 
 IN the month of October, 1820, a tall boy of sixteen, with a hand- 
 some, sensitive face, long locks, and clear, lustrous gray eyes, was 
 at work at a desk in the office of a great line of stage-coaches in the 
 ancient town of Salem, Mass. The office was that of William Man- 
 ning. The young book-keeper was his nephew, Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
 destined to win fame as the greatest and most original American writer 
 of romance, — a fame which has spread into many countries, carried 
 by translations or reprints of " The Scarlet Letter," the " Twice-Told 
 Tales," " The Marble Faun," and others of his books. Of the other 
 books, perhaps the reader is most familiar with the " True Stories," 
 from New-England history ; the " Wonder-Book," and " Tanglewood 
 Tales." 
 
 At the time when he was thus writing for his uncle William, he 
 had been "fitting" for college about seven months. Getting ready 
 for an entrance examination, at that time, was rather a different busi- 
 ness from the complicated process of going through a preparatory 
 school for Harvard or Yale nowadays. For some reason, when Haw- 
 thorne began his ante-collegiate studies, he left school, and received 
 instruction from one of the lawyers of Salem. I suppose going to 
 college was such a momentous thing then, that a busy lawyer felt it 
 to be more or less his duty to superintend the young man's studies ; 
 and so the future novelist used to get his lessons at home, and recite 
 to Mr. Oliver at seven o'clock in the morning. They were not afraid 
 of getting up early ! Afterwards, at certain times of the day, the stu- 
 dent had his work to do in the office ; and, apparently not satisfied 
 with these employments, he amused himself by printing with the pen
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S COLLEGE DAYS. 313 
 
 a little mimic newspaper, called " The Spectator," which he issued 
 once a week. It was certainly one of the cheapest papers ever pub- 
 lished, costing only half a cent a copy ; but its list of subscribers evi- 
 dently was not large enough to encourage such generosity, for only a 
 few numbers were produced. 
 
 The editor, moreover, had a way of poking fun at himself, very 
 unlike the grandeur and seriousness of editors on a large scale ; and 
 perhaps this was a disadvantage to him. In the first number, he pre- 
 dicted its fate in these words : " It may pine in obscurity, neglected 
 and forgotten by those with whose assistance it might become the 
 Pride and Ornament of our Country." How little did the boy who 
 wrote that sentence foresee that his works of fiction would one day 
 become what he jestingly hinted that his newspaper might grow to be! 
 Nevertheless, he already had a pretty clear idea what he wanted to 
 do in life. He had written to his mother that he did not want to be 
 a doctor, to live by men's diseases ; nor a minister, to live by their 
 sins ; nor a lawyer, to live by their quarrels. " So, I don't see that 
 there is any thing left for me but to be an author," he concluded. 
 And then he asked the prophetic question, " How would you like, 
 some day, to see a whole shelf-ful of books written by your son, with 
 ' Hathorne's ' Works ' printed on the back of them ? " 
 
 He had written verse too ; for, in a letter to one of his sisters, he 
 says, " I have almost given up writing poetry. No man can be a poet 
 and a book-keeper at the same time." A very sensible remark this ; 
 and when you hear Samuel Rogers, the banker-poet, and our own 
 Halleck, cited as instances to the contrary, remember that we shall 
 never know how much they failed to do in literature, owing to the 
 energy spent by them in business. 
 
 Hawthorne had been a great reader for his age. His chief favorite 
 among books was Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Progress ; " and he had taken 
 great interest in Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Thomson, and Rousseau. 
 A year before he went to college, he had read all of Scott's novels, 
 except " The Abbot," and wished he had them to read again. 
 Next to these, he liked Godwin's "Caleb Williams." It maybe no- 
 ticed that all these books are of the imaginative order, and he was 
 very frank in expressing his distaste for a book when he thought it 
 dry. Even Hume's " History of England" he pronounced "so abom- 
 inably dull," during his freshman year, that he gave it up. Here let 
 
 1 The family name was then spelled Hathorne.
 
 3 H NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S COLLEGE DAYS. 
 
 me say that he probably began at the beginning, in which case his 
 judgment of its dulness was correct ; but he missed some fine pas- 
 sages by not looking farther. Yet although he was so fond of fiction, 
 and wished to be a writer, he had some hesitation about going to col- 
 lege. Nathaniel Hawthorne's father had died when his son was only 
 four years old, and the boy's uncles had been very kind to his mother 
 and sisters and himself. His rncle, Robert Manning, was going to 
 defray his expenses at Bowdoin College ; and, at times, it troubled the 
 young man to think that he must continue to depend on others for his 
 support four years longer. This was a feeling which we must all 
 respect, and yet it will be agreed that he acted wisely in finally 
 accepting his uncle's offer. 
 
 In that month of October, 1821, with which I began this narrative, 
 he wrote to his sister, " I do not think I shall ever go to college." 
 Perhaps, when he penned that sentence, he was longing to return to 
 the beautiful region of Raymond, Me., where he had lately spent a 
 twelvemonth, and where his widowed mother was then living with her 
 two daughters. But, in a year from that time, he underwent the mys- 
 terious transformation from a boy to a collegian, and took up his quar- 
 ters at Bowdoin, in the little village of Brunswick, situated on the 
 Penobscot River, only about thirty miles from Raymond. He entered 
 the class which was to graduate in 1825, of which the poet Longfellow, 
 and the famous preacher Cheever, and John S. C. Abbott, the popular 
 author of books for young people, were also members. This class has 
 since been recognized as the most illustrious one ever graduated at 
 Bowdoin ; and whoever has not read Longfellow's poem, " Morituri 
 Salutamus," read at the fiftieth re-union of its surviving members, 
 should lose no time before making acquaintance with that interesting 
 composition. Franklin Pierce, who became President of the United 
 States in 1852, was in the next class above Hawthorne, but became 
 one of his two most intimate friends. The other was Horatio Bridge, 
 whose father was a large land-owner in Maine. Hawthorne saw very 
 little of the other students, except in recitations, and in his college 
 society ; or, perhaps it would be more proper to say, they saw very 
 little of him. For I think he must even then have been observing 
 people with that keenness for studying human nature which he after- 
 wards used to such good purpose ; and, in fact, only three years after 
 graduating, he published his first novel, " Fanshawe," in which it is 
 easy to see that the college-scenes had been arranging themselves in 
 his mind as material for romance.
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S COLLEGE DAYS. 
 
 3*5 
 
 He was, at this time, a tall, strong, athletic young man, fond of 
 outdoor sports, but exceedingly shy. He entered the Athenaean 
 Society, — a literary body, composed of students, in which he took an 
 active part ; and there still exists a Latin essay of some merit which 
 he read there in his junior year. His classmate, Longfellow, entered 
 
 Hawthorne and his Home. 
 
 the rival literary society, between which and the Athenaean there was 
 a lively competition and a severe separation ; so that the two youths 
 who were to bring the most renown to the class in after-years, saw 
 little of each other. But Longfellow used to recall how Hawthorne 
 would rise in the recitation-room, standing slightly sidewise, — an 
 attitude due to his constitutional shyness, — and read from the Roman 
 classics translations which had a peculiar elegance and charm. He
 
 316 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S COLLEGE DAYS. 
 
 was evidently not content with a bald rendering of the original, but 
 threw into his version of the Latin peculiar beauties of English style. 
 
 Hawthorne boarded, with several others, at a house in the village 
 which used to have the peculiarity of a staircase going up to the sec- 
 ond story on the outside of the building. There is not much to tell 
 about his way of life there ; because the Bowdoin students — even the 
 most sociable of them — passed very quiet days, quite free from the ex- 
 citements of modern colleges, and with few peculiar customs, — unless 
 the "rope-pull" and the "hold-in" were in vogue at that time. The 
 rope-pull is a rough but thorough method of testing the strength of 
 the freshman and sophomore classes. Both parties take hold of the 
 ends of a long rope, and tug away at them as hard as they can. The 
 sophomores generally win : but, if this experiment was tried with 
 the class of 1825, I think they must have found Hawthorne a hard 
 man to conquer ; for he was physically strong, and his resolution is 
 shown in the persistence with which he followed the literary profession 
 for eighteen years before he gained recognition. 
 
 The hold-in was another Bowdoin custom of the same sort. When 
 the students held meetings in one of the college-buildings, the sopho- 
 mores would form around the door en ^diclon (as military men would 
 say), and try to prevent the freshmen from getting out. 
 
 In his studies, Hawthorne soon gained a reputation for English 
 composition. One of the professors who taught him, writes, more than 
 fifty years afterwards, " His themes were written in the sustained, 
 finished style that gives to his mature productions an inimitable 
 charm." Professor Newman, who had charge of this branch, was often 
 so struck with the beauty of these compositions, that he would read 
 them to his family in the evening. But the youthful author himself 
 was very diffident about them. Professor Packard says, "The recol- 
 lection is very distinct of Hawthorne's reluctant step and averted look 
 when he presented himself at the professor's study, and submitted a 
 composition which no man in his class could equal." 
 
 It has been well remarked, that genius in literature gives men a 
 strong feminine element ; and what I have just quoted reminds me 
 that Longfellow says it was like talking to a woman to converse with 
 Hawthorne, so great was his delicacy of mind and gentle sensitiveness. 
 Yet it must be well understood that this gentleness was united with 
 firm, manly qualities, and even a certain amount of wildness. But the 
 wildness, after all, was very innocent. He used to spend some of 
 the study-hours in picking blueberries with his friend Bridge under
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S COLLEGE DAYS. 317 
 
 the pine-trees which still stand in a grove behind the college-buildings, 
 and was fond of trout-fishing, shooting, and "watching the great logs 
 as they tumbled along the current of the Androscoggin." Those log- 
 jams, by the way, occur nowadays, too, and are very exciting things ; 
 and the French-Canadians, employed in factories at Brunswick, go out 
 into the river to try to save some of the logs, for which they get fifty 
 cents each. Every year several lives are lost in this dangerous work. 
 
 The village of Brunswick stands on high ground above the river, 
 which is crossed by a covered bridge that goes zigzag from bank to 
 bank, resting on rocky ledges that rise out of the water, and making 
 a very picturesque object in the scene. Salmon are caught from the 
 river : and, in old days, they used to be so plenty, that apprentices in 
 Brunswick would make it a condition with their masters that they were 
 not to have salmon more than three times a week ; for otherwise 
 they would have been fed with that delectable fish the whole time, 
 which would have been too much of a good thing. 
 
 The village itself is on two sides of a broad street running at right 
 angles with the river, and having a broad mall in the centre, which, in 
 Hawthorne's time, was a sort of swamp. Here, too, stood the tall 
 church-spire, from which highways and railroads all around here have 
 been laid out, so prominent was it ; but this was blown down in a 
 heavy storm a year or two ago. The broad street, in those days, con- 
 tinued in a bee-line down to Casco Bay, which is only a few miles dis- 
 tant, and was called "sixteen-rod road," from its being sixteen rods 
 broad all the way. I have no doubt Hawthorne frequently walked 
 down it ; for his father and other ancestors had been seafaring men, 
 and he was extremely fond of the ocean. 
 
 While he was in college, his friend Pierce got up a military com- 
 pany, which he joined (military drill is now a regular part of the 
 course at Bowdoin) ; and the future general of the Mexican war, and 
 President of the States, put the dreamy, embryo novelist through 
 the tactics with great vigor. But his friend Bridge insisted upon it 
 that Hawthorne was to be a writer of fiction, and the world knows 
 now that he was right. 
 
 It is not known that he made any serious efforts to produce stories 
 while in college, though Longfellow wrote some of his first published 
 poems at that time. Minds, like flowers, blossom at different seasons ; 
 and Hawthorne did not mature so early as Longfellow. But he did 
 write some poems during his college course ; and a few verses of his, 
 on " Moonlight," have been preserved.
 
 318 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S COLLEGE DAYS. 
 
 A story is told about a practical joke which he perpetrated on his 
 uncle Robert, who was much interested in fruit-raising. A new kind 
 of insect, injurious to pear-trees, had been heard of ; and Hawthorne 
 exercised his fancy in writing an account of this creature, which, of 
 course, he had never seen. The article was published in a paper to 
 which he sent it, and Mr. Manning was entirely taken in by it. 
 
 Hawthorne must, at times, have been very much pre-occupied ; for 
 it is known that he had the habit of whittling at his furniture while he 
 studied or read, and that, in this way, he had cut an entire table into 
 shavings before he graduated. I have in my possession now a wooden 
 rocking-chair which he used in college ; and the two arms are gone, 
 possibly having suffered the same fate with the vanished table. It is 
 a plain, much-worn old chair, with a curved back ; but to sit in it, 
 somehow brings on an imaginative mood. 
 
 One reason why Hawthorne did not get credit for scholarship was, 
 that he was too shy to assert himself. In spite of his hidden ambition, 
 he did not expect much of the future. In his senior year he wrote, 
 " I have come to the conclusion that I shall never make a distinguished 
 figure in the world ; " and, at another time, he was much annoyed 
 because a visitor at Brunswick had praised him to the friends at home. 
 His rank for scholarship entitled him to a "part" at Commencement ; 
 but, because he had neglected declamation, the rules of the faculty 
 prevented his speaking on that occasion, at which he was greatly re- 
 lieved, because he did not want to appear in public. Retiring, stead- 
 fast in his few attachments, caring little for popularity and the crowd, 
 or for the appearance of brilliant attainment, so long as he knew that 
 the reality was his, — thus he was at Bowdoin, and thus he remained. 
 
 Lord Bacon says, "A man's nature runs either to herbs or to 
 weeds : therefore let him seasonably water the one, and destroy the 
 other." It cannot be doubted that Hawthorne watered the herbs in 
 youth, since they flowered so beautifully afterwards. But he chose 
 his own way of doing it. If he now and then neglected the regular 
 studies, he did so, not because he was idle, but because he had an ear- 
 nest purpose with regard to the development of his mind, and knew 
 best what would suit this purpose.
 
 THE HOME OF J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 By HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. 
 
 THE old county of Essex, Mass., is fertile in suggestions of poetry. 
 It is dotted with sunny villages, shady farms, landscapes diver- 
 sified with pure, clear rivers, and landslopes before which rolls the 
 broad, open sea. Every old farmhouse has a legend, and every town 
 its quaint bit of colonial history The Merrimack, that industrious 
 river, goes dimpling through it to the sea, shaded in summer by 
 wooded hills, and reflecting in autumn the leafy rubies of newly cut 
 timber-lands, or the grand forms of old trees. 
 
 " Beautiful ! beautiful ! " exclaimed President Washington, in his 
 journey to Haverhill in 1789, as his eye fell on the sparkling waters of 
 the Merrimack. " Haverhill is the pleasantest village I ever passed 
 through." 
 
 In this pleasant old New-England town, there was born, in 1808, a 
 poet, with whose ballads, we doubt not, our readers are acquainted. 
 He is a descendant of an old Quaker family, which settled along the 
 banks of the Merrimack when Haverhill was a frontier settlement, and 
 the Indians burned its houses, and carried unhappy Hannah Duston 
 into a long captivity. The colonial Whittiers, refusing the protection 
 of the garrison in these perilous times, relied upon just and kind 
 treatment of the Indians for defence. They found their peace-prin- 
 ciples, and their habit of dealing justly with all men, a more sure 
 defence than muskets or stockades. The family used to hear the 
 Indians at the windows on the still winter nights, and occasionally 
 would see a red face and fierce eyes at the window-pane. But though 
 their neighbors were murdered, and their property destroyed, the 
 Quakers were never molested. 
 
 The poet's early home was an ample old farmhouse in East Haver- 
 hill. As you may read about it in " Snow-Bound," it need not be 
 described here. In recent years it has fallen somewhat into decay, 
 
 319
 
 320 THE HOME OF J. G. WHITTJER. 
 
 though its grand old trees and primitive expression have been partially 
 preserved. 
 
 The poet, when quite young, was sent to school to a queer old 
 pedagogue, who received pupils in a room in his own house. The 
 teacher did not succeed in governing his wife, however well he may 
 have governed his scholars. Like Oliver Goldsmith, who gave his 
 pupils gingerbread, and told them stories, this easy-going man adopted 
 the persuasive method of preserving order, and imparting instruction. 
 
 " Through the cracked and crazy wall 
 Came the cradle-rock and squall, 
 And the goodman's voice at strife 
 With his shrill and tipsy wife, 
 Luring us by stories old, 
 With a comic unction told, 
 More than by the eloquence 
 Of terse birchen arguments." 
 
 The young scholar had few books of poetry in his early years, but 
 Nature was to him a continual poem. The warm grasp of friendship, 
 the blue sky of spring, and the changing splendors of all, — these were 
 to him sources of poetic inspiration. He was a mere boy when he 
 began to express the glowing feelings of his soul in verse. One day 
 he ventured to send a poem, which he had copied in blue ink on some 
 coarse paper, to an anti-slavery journal, called the " Free Press," pub- 
 lished in Newburyport. The editor of the paper, William Lloyd Gar- 
 rison, found the poem on the floor of his office, it having been tucked 
 under the door by the postman. His first impulse was to throw the 
 manuscript into the waste-basket ; but, being a conscientious man, he 
 gave it a reading He had not read far before he discovered in the 
 lines evidence that they were written by a true poet. The poem ap- 
 peared in "The Free Press." Other poems from the same writer 
 came to the office, and they impressed Mr. Garrison so favorably that 
 he made inquiries of the postman whence they came. He was told 
 that they probably had been sent by a farmer's son in East Haverhill. 
 
 Mr. Garrison, thinking that he ought to encourage so promising a 
 writer, rode over to East Haverhill to call on his new contributor. He 
 found him at work with his father on the farm. The young man ac- 
 knowledged the authorship of the poems. The visit of the editor 
 must have been a happy surprise to him, for appreciation is never more 
 stimulating than in youth. 
 
 Mr. Whittier began life as a teacher. He came to Boston when
 
 THE HOME OF J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 321 
 
 about twenty-one years of age, where he was employed editorially on 
 "The New-England Weekly." Returning to Haverhill, he was elected 
 to the Massachusetts Legislature, and afterwards went to Philadelphia 
 as editor of "The Freeman." But his love of a quiet life led him again 
 to the Merrimack ; and he settled in the rural town of Amesbury, 
 where the moral, political, and pastoral poems, by which he is best 
 known to the world, were mostly written. His home is a plain, neat 
 house, in the most quiet 
 part of the town. At a 
 little distance the open 
 country stretches in front 
 of its windows. Near it 
 stands a Quaker meeting- 
 house, on the border of a 
 growth of birch and pine, 
 around which a shady road 
 goes winding through the 
 light, sandy soil. Not far 
 behind it rolls the Merri- 
 mack through hill-slopes 
 variegated with glossy 
 birches, billowy oaks, and 
 dark clusters of laurels 
 and pines. 
 
 For the last few years 
 he has spent most of his 
 time at Oak Knoll in Dan- 
 vers, Mass., the attractive 
 country-home of relatives. 
 The poet's home was, for 
 many years, in charge of his maiden sister, Elizabeth H. Whittier, a 
 woman of lovely character, who fully sympathized with her brother in 
 his literary work. It is said that he was accustomed to submit to her 
 criticism the first copies of whatever he wrote. The old Quaker 
 preachers, anti-slavery reformers, and many eminent writers, used to 
 visit the Whittiers at this time, and enjoy the cosey hospitality of the 
 sunny rooms. A well-tilled garden blossomed without, household pets 
 added to the charming simplicity within ; and the wooded hills, which 
 enclosed the homestead like a park, rolled away in the distance to the 
 busy river that ran to the sea. 
 
 
 John G. Whittier.
 
 322 
 
 THE HOME OF J. G. WHITT1J.R. 
 
 The associations of Whittier's poetry are almost everywhere to 
 be found in the county in which he lives. The Merrimack, which 
 clasps many historic towns in its arm, on its bending way to the sea, 
 is his river of song. Marblehead, perhaps the quaintest town in 
 America, with its sea-worn rocks, and its lighthouses flaming at even- 
 ing above the silvery lagoons of the ocean, is the scene of Skipper Ire- 
 son's punishment. Newburyport, where Whitefield's coffin may still 
 
 be seen, — 
 
 " Under the church on Federal Street," 
 
 is the scene of "The Preacher." The curving beaches that sweep away 
 
 Mr. Whittier's Birthplace. 
 
 from the old coast-towns of Gloucester, Ipswich, and Marblehead, are 
 accurately described in "The Tent on the Beach," and in other poems. 
 "The Shoemakers," "The Huskers," "The Drovers," and "The Fish- 
 ermen," are subjects of poems that but picture familiar scenes in 
 Amesbury, and in the neighboring towns. 
 
 Most of his historical ballads are associated with places which the 
 old inhabitants point out to the stranger who visits Essex County, and 
 the incidents of many of them were told at the farmers' firesides a
 
 THE HOME OF J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 323 
 
 hundred years ago. Like the brothers Grimm in Germany, the poet 
 has collected these old tales, and given them enduring fame by clothing 
 them in the choicest language. 
 
 Mr. Whittier wears the silver crown of seventy-eight years. His 
 poems are among the aesthetic treasures of every intelligent family, as 
 far as the English language is spoken. They are recited in every 
 school, and quoted from many a platform and pulpit. Their influences 
 
 Oak Knoll, Dan vers. 
 
 range widely, and always for good. It is indeed a blessed life that 
 multiplies such influences among mankind ! " His poetry," says one 
 of his old friends, "burst from the heart with the fire and energy of 
 the ancient prophet ; but his noble simplicity of character is the 
 delight of us all."
 
 THE CZAR, ALEXANDER II., IN THE 
 FIELD, 1877. 
 
 By ARCHIBALD FORBES. 
 
 THE Romanoffs have always been fighting-men. Peter the Great 
 was at the siege of Narva, Alexander I. marched across Europe 
 to participate in the overthrow of Napoleon, Nicholas burned to con- 
 front the enemies of Russia in the Crimea, and the late Emperor 
 crossed the Danube with the march of invasion of Turkey that ended 
 only at the gates of Constantinople. 
 
 But the position of Alexander II. in the field was somewhat pecul- 
 iar. He was not the commander-in-chief of the great hosts which 
 were drawn from the enthusiastic masses of his devoted subjects. 
 That position he had assigned to his brother, the Grand Duke Nicholas. 
 The Emperor, in a military sense, made the campaign simply as an 
 intensely interested spectator. 
 
 His life on campaign was a life of strange simplicity, of great 
 seclusion, always of deep concern, and mostly of great anguish. He 
 was not strictly in the field until he had crossed the Danube ; but for 
 more than a fortnight he lived a campaigning-life in a little country- 
 house overhanging the great river, a few rods to the westward of the 
 miserable Roumanian village of Simnitza. He himself had accommo- 
 dation here under a roof ; but most of his numerous entourage dwelt 
 in tents among the trees, and in the paddocks adjoining. Under this 
 canvas roof, members of the imperial family, and the nobles and gen- 
 erals, their friends, made very merry. They fiddled when Rome was 
 burning ; but the Emperor himself was scarcely seen outside the gates 
 of his own habitation, save to visit the hospitals, or to drive to a point 
 commanding some long stretch of the great river. He always trav- 
 elled on wheels. I do not remember to have seen him oftener than 
 twice on horseback during the whole campaign. 
 
 3 2 4
 
 THE CZAR, ALEXANDER II, IN THE FIELD. 
 
 325 
 
 The Russians, indeed, are not an equestrian people ; that is, they 
 do not ride for the mere love of riding. It was nothing uncommon 
 for a general to lead his division in the march snugly ensconced in a 
 comfortable birja. 
 
 The day after Gen. Dragomiroff had carried the passage of the 
 Danube opposite Simnitza, the Emperor crossed the river for the pur- 
 
 Alexander II. 
 
 pose of visiting Sistova, the Bulgarian town confronting Simnitza, and 
 of thanking, in person, the gallant division which had so valiantly 
 fought its way across the great river, and carried the heights on the 
 other side. There was no formal review. The troops were too widely 
 dispersed to be brought together for that. Yolchine's brigade, the one 
 that had crossed first, had got under arms as the Emperor came up 
 from the river-side ; and Gens. Dragomiroff and Yolchine stood in
 
 326 THE CZAR, ALEXANDER, II, IN THE FIELD. 
 
 front of it, along with the young Gen. Skobeleff, who had shown his 
 wonted valor, and all his rare powers of leadership, in the action of 
 the day before. 
 
 The troops replied to the Emperor's greeting in accents which were 
 eloquent, moved by an impulse of absolute adoration. The simple 
 private men gazed on their Czar with entranced eyes of childlike love 
 and awe. 
 
 The Emperor's aspect on that day, when as yet anxiety and ill- 
 health had not broken him down, was singularly imposing. A man of 
 nearly sixty, he looked remarkably young for his age ; for the long 
 dark mustache hardly showed a tinge of gray, and the majestic figure 
 was as straight as a pine. He looked a very king of men, as, with 
 soldierly gait, he strode up to Dragomiroff, shook him by the hand, 
 and arrested his attempt at obeisance by clasping him in a hearty 
 embrace. 
 
 Yolchine was similarly honored ; but the Czar turned away from 
 young Skobeleff with a frown, for that brilliant officer had been re- 
 called from Central Asia under a cloud, — a cloud of baseless accusa- 
 tion ; and the opportunity of self-vindication had not yet offered. Six 
 weeks later the Emperor gave, at his own table, the toast of " Skobe- 
 leff, the hero of Loftcha ! " 
 
 Gourko dashed across the Balkans on that gallant but abortive 
 raid of his ; and the advance-guard of the army, to the command of 
 which the Czarewitch was appointed, pushed eastward till it came 
 within sight of the earthworks which the Turks had thrown up around 
 the fortress of Rustchuk. 
 
 The Emperor and his suite crossed the Danube, and took up quar- 
 ters in a farmyard near the village of Paolo, — a position which was 
 fairly central for receiving intelligence from both lines of advance, and 
 yet within easy distance of the bridge across the river at Simnitza. 
 At this time the Archduke Nicholas had his headquarters at Tirnova, 
 up at the foot of the Balkans. 
 
 Some ten days later the imperial headquarters moved farther east- 
 ward, into the little town of Biela, in the direct rear of the army of 
 the Czarewitch. At Biela the headquarters were fixed for several 
 weeks in the enclosed yard of a dismantled Turkish house, which the 
 Bulgarians had gutted when its occupants fled. A high, wattled fence 
 surrounded this yard, in which stood a few willow-trees that afforded 
 some shade. 
 
 The bureaux were in the Turkish house. The Emperor lived in
 
 THE CZAR, ALEXANDER II, IN THE FIELD. 327 
 
 two simple officers' tents, communicating with each other, up in a cor- 
 ner of the yard, under the willow-trees. In the centre of the yard 
 was the large dining marquee, where the Emperor took his meals 
 along with the officers of his suite, and such of the foreign military 
 attache's as were not with the headquarters of the commander-in-chief. 
 
 He was wont to breakfast alone in his own tent, where he worked 
 all the morning with Milutin, the minister of war ; Ignatieff, the dip- 
 lomat ; Adlerberg, the chamberlain of the palace, and the Emperor's 
 foster-brother ; and other high officials who solicited interviews. It 
 must be remembered, that from this camp, far away in Bulgaria, the 
 Emperor was administering the affairs of a huge empire, whose capital 
 was several thousand miles away. 
 
 At noon, luncheon was served in the great marquee ; and all the 
 suite was wont to gather in the yard for conversation a short time in 
 advance. The Emperor came out from his tent, shaking hands with 
 the nearest members of his suite as he passed into the marquee. His 
 place was in the middle of the right-hand side of the table, with Gen. 
 Suwaroff on one side, and Gen. Milutin, the war minister, on the other; 
 the foreign attache's opposite. 
 
 The greatest simplicity prevailed in the fare served at the imperial 
 table, and champagne was used only on great occasions. When the 
 time of coffee came, the Emperor gave the signal for smoking ; and 
 immediately the marquee was filled by a cloud of cigarette-smoke. He 
 was wont to talk freely at table, directing much of his conversation to 
 the foreign officers opposite to him ; and occasionally, especially when 
 addressing Col. Wellesley, the British representative, his tone was that 
 of grave badinage. 
 
 No elaborate precautions were taken for the Emperor's safety. 
 Living here in Biela, in the midst of a curiously mixed population of 
 wretched Bulgarians and prowling Turks, his only guard consisted of 
 a handful of the Imperial Cossacks of the guard on duty at the en- 
 trance of the yard. He drove out every day, attended by an escort 
 of some dozen of these ; and he would walk around to the hospitals 
 in the environs of the little town, accompanied but by a single com- 
 panion. 
 
 He would spend an hour in talking with the poor ailing fellows in 
 the wretched hospitals, where his presence did more good than all the 
 efforts of the doctors. Once, during a drive, he saw a batch of Turk- 
 ish fugitives, among whom were many women and children, lurking in 
 a wood. He at once went among them ; and, by assurances of protec-
 
 328 THE CZAR, ALEXANDER II, IN THE FIELD. 
 
 tion, he succeeded in prevailing on them to return to their homes in 
 Biela, where he had them rationed until they were able to do something 
 for themselves. 
 
 After the Plevna disaster in the end of July, and Gourko's retire- 
 ment across the Balkans, the imperial headquarters were moved to a 
 village called Gorni Studen, about equidistant from Plevna and from 
 Tirnova, at the foot of the Balkans. Biela had become poisonous by 
 reason of an utter disregard of all sanitary precautions ; and the Em- 
 peror had been ailing from low fever, rheumatism, and asthma, — the 
 latter his chronic malady. 
 
 At Gorni he abandoned tent-life, and seldom was able to come to 
 the general table in the marquee. A dismantled Turkish house was 
 fitted up for him after a fashion, and he slept in a tiny cabin with mud 
 walls and a mud floor. It was in this house where I had an interview 
 with him when I came back in August from the Shipka, with the good 
 news that Radatski was holding his own well against the assaults of 
 Mehemet Ali. 
 
 I never saw a man so changed from the early days at Simnitza. 
 He was gaunt, worn, and haggard. His nerves seemed utterly shat- 
 tered. The expression in his eye was that of a hunted deer, and he 
 gasped for breath in the spasms of the asthma that afflicted him. I 
 left him with the conviction that he certainly would not break the 
 spell that consigned every Romanoff to the grave before reaching the 
 age of sixty. 
 
 There was something wonderfully pathetic in the fervor with which 
 he grasped at the expressed belief of a mere unprofessional neutral 
 like myself, in the face of the apprehensions to the contrary of all 
 about him, that Radatski would make good the tenure of his position 
 on the top of the Shipka. 
 
 Then he sent me across to the headquarters of his brother, the 
 Archduke Nicholas, to repeat to that commander the news which I 
 had brought. The Grand Duke asked me for an opinion about the 
 best way to hold the Shipka. I replied that the most advantageous 
 plan seemed to me to treat it as a great forepost, — to keep an army 
 corps about Sistova, and detail from it a brigade at a time to hold the 
 Shipka. 
 
 "An army corps ! " cried the Grand Duke. " My life, when I don't 
 know where to find a battalion ! " 
 
 The Emperor was present on the field during the six days' struggle 
 around Plevna in the September of the war. They had built for him,
 
 THE CZAR, ALEXANDER II, IN THE FIELD. 
 
 ,29 
 
 on a little eminence at a safe distance, a sort of lookout place, which 
 covered a great part of the scene of action. In the rear of this, a long 
 table was spread with luncheon. As for the Emperor himself, after 
 the first two days, he neither ate nor drank. Anxiety visibly devoured 
 
 The Czar in the Field. 
 
 him. He could not be restrained from leaving the observatorium, and 
 going around among his soldiers. 
 
 I saw him on the little balcony of the lookout place late in the 
 afternoon of the fifth day of the struggle, as he stood there, gazing 
 out with haggard, eager eyes at the efforts to storm the great Grivitca 
 redoubt. Assault after assault had been delivered, and had failed. 
 As the Turkish fire combed clown his Russians as they strove to 
 struggle up the slope, slippery already with Roumanian blood, the pale
 
 330 THE CZAR, ALEXANDER II, IN THE FIELD. 
 
 face quivered, and the tall figure winced and cowered. As he stood 
 there, alone and self-centred, he was a spectacle of majestic misery 
 that was never to be forgotten. 
 
 After Plevna had fallen, the Emperor returned to St. Petersburg, 
 there to receive a reception, the like of which, for pure intensity of 
 enthusiasm, I have never witnessed. From the railway station he 
 drove straight to the Kasan Cathedral, in accordance with the ancient 
 custom. People had spent the night sleeping on its marble floor, that 
 they might be sure of a place in the morning. There had been no 
 respect of persons in the admissions, — the peasant in his sheepskins 
 stood beside the soldier-noble, whose bosom glittered with decorations. 
 The peasant-woman and the princess knelt together at the same 
 shrine. 
 
 When the Emperor's advent was announced, the Archbishop ad- 
 vanced to meet him, and led him in procession up the great central 
 aisle. The Emperor reached the altar, bent his head, and kissed the 
 image of the Virgin. When he turned to leave the building, the wild- 
 est enthusiasm laid hold of the throng. His people closed in about 
 the Czar, till he had no power to move. The struggle was but to 
 touch him, or even the hem of his cloak ; and the chaos of policemen, 
 officers, shrieking women, and enthusiastic peasants swayed and heaved 
 to and fro, the Emperor in the centre, pale, his lips trembling with 
 emotion, just as I have seen him when his troops were cheering him 
 on the battle-field. It took him a quarter of an hour to force his way 
 to his carriage ; and, for two days after, St. Petersburg was in a delirium 
 of loyalty.
 
 ADOLPHE THIERS. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE long career of Adolphe Thiers, the famous French statesman, 
 fifty years of which was spent in public life, was full of romantic 
 incidents. The son of a poor locksmith of Marseilles, his energy and 
 talents enabled him to rise to the highest honors which France could 
 confer upon one of her sons ; but he did not reach this height of fame 
 and power without passing through many perils, and meeting with 
 many stirring adventures. 
 
 His pugnacious disposition, which so often betrayed itself in his 
 after-years, was developed in him in early boyhood. At school he was 
 an incorrigible little fellow, always nagging his teachers, and fighting 
 with his fellow-scholars, refusing to learn his lessons, and refusing to 
 obey his superiors. Added to these qualities was a fondness for 
 mischief-making and practical jokes. 
 
 One day he put some wax on his teacher's seat in school, so that, 
 when the teacher sat down upon it, he found himself sticking fast to 
 the chair ; and he could not get up again. At first he found it difficult 
 to discover the urchin who had played him this mischievous trick ; but 
 his suspicions soon fell upon little Adolphe Thiers, the most unruly of 
 all his scholars. Thiers was at once marched off up-stairs, put into 
 an empty room, locked in, and kept there, living on bread and water 
 for three or four days. 
 
 This was a turning-point in his life. From that hour he became 
 the steadiest, most diligent, most brilliant, and most submissive, pupil 
 in the school. His lessons were all perfectly learned, he stuck close 
 to his books, and went to the head of his classes, and staid there. For 
 seven years in succession he carried off the highest prizes offered to 
 the scholars. France owes very much to the teacher who thus con- 
 verted Thiers into a student by locking him up. 
 
 Thiers went up to Paris, and there became a newspaper writer,
 
 33 2 ADOLPHE THIERS. 
 
 interesting himself in politics, and becoming a popular member of so- 
 ciety. He was always loitering about the Palais Bourbon, where the 
 French legislative body held its sittings, and used to gaze reverently 
 at the celebrated men whom he saw going in and out. 
 
 One day Manuel, a noted orator of the Assembly, made a furious 
 attack upon the king and the ministers. It was at once voted that 
 he should be summarily punished, and he was rudely turned out of the 
 hall. As he came, boiling with indignation, out of the Palais into the 
 street, young Thiers happened to be sauntering near by. Learning 
 what had happened to Manuel, the fiery little editor hurried up to him, 
 and, though an entire stranger, seized him by both hands. 
 
 "Vengeance!" cried he angrily. "The representatives are invio- 
 lable ! Shame upon those who violate the charter ! " 
 
 " Be quiet ! " answered Manuel. " Don't subject yourself to arrest. 
 What is your name, young man ? " 
 
 Thiers told the orator who he was, and added, " If you need a 
 devoted pen, I offer you mine. It is a worthy one. We are fellow- 
 countrymen." 
 
 Manuel took him at his word ; and the very next week he had an 
 invitation to become one of the editors of "The Constitutional," then 
 the leading paper of Paris. 
 
 When the revolution of 1830, which drove the last Bourbon, 
 Charles X., from the throne, fiery little Thiers was in the midst of 
 the turmoil, and actively engaged in directing its current. He was 
 now a person of much importance ; for his writings had made him 
 famous, and had done much to hasten the revolution. It was due to 
 him, that, instead of founding a Republic, the leaders resolved to sub- 
 stitute a mild, free Monarchy in place of downfallen Bourbon despot- 
 ism ; and it was he who persuaded them to put Louis Philippe, Duke 
 of Orleans, at the head of the new rfgivic. 
 
 Of course, Thiers was a great man when the king, whom he had 
 chosen, and who was indebted to him for his throne, began to reign. 
 His rise in office was rapid ; and, in six years after the revolution, the 
 once obscure editor found himself Prime Minister of France. 
 
 It was while he held the office of Minister of the Interior that the 
 following romantic incident occurred : — 
 
 Charles X., who had been driven from the throne in 1830, had had 
 a son, the Duke de Berri, who had been assassinated some years be- 
 fore. This Duke de Berri left a widow and an only child, the Duke of 
 Bordeaux, now known as the Count of Chambord.
 
 ADOLPHE THIERS. 
 
 333 
 
 The Duchess of Berri was a very resolute woman ; and soon after 
 her father-in-law was driven from the throne, and Louis Philippe suc- 
 ceeded, she resolved to attempt to stir up a revolt in favor of her infant 
 son. The result was the insurrection of La Vendee, but this rising 
 was speedily suppressed. Meanwhile the duchess remained in France, 
 
 Adolphe Thiers. 
 
 in hiding somewhere. The extreme party of the deputies suspected 
 Thiers of not wishing to arrest her, and made a great clamor about it 
 in the Chamber. One day a hot-headed deputy seized Thiers by the 
 collar, and cried out angrily, — 
 
 " You will not arrest her ! You would ruin France for the profit 
 of these vile Bourbons ! " 
 
 Thiers, though a little man, was muscular. He pushed the irate 
 deputy back into his seat, and said, —
 
 334 ADOLPHE THIERS. 
 
 " Meet me at Anterid an hour hence, with sword or pistol — I am 
 good at either. I will kill you ! " 
 
 Before the time came, the deputy's anger had cooled ; and he 
 humbly apologized for his rudeness. 
 
 The same day that this happened, Thiers received an anonymous 
 note, in which the writer declared that he could confide to him the 
 secret of the Duchess of Berri's hiding-place. 
 
 " I exact from you," the letter said, " two conditions. One is, that 
 the duchess shall in no case run any serious peril ; the other, that you 
 will meet me alone this night, between eleven and midnight, at a cer- 
 tain spot under the trees of the Champs Elysees." 
 
 It was a dangerous thing for him to do, but Thiers never lacked 
 courage at a critical moment. His curiosity and his zeal were aroused 
 by the mysterious letter. At the appointed time he repaired, quite 
 alone, to the secluded spot which the letter named. He found there 
 a man, all muffled up, who proved to be one Dentz, a Jew, in whose 
 faith the Duchess of Berri placed perfect confidence. 
 
 Dentz began at once, by saying to the minister, " What will you 
 give, if I deliver the Duchess de Berri to the officers of the law ? " 
 
 "A million francs," Thiers promptly replied. 
 
 "Enough. It is agreed," was the traitor's response. 
 
 The duchess was hiding at Nantes, the capital of ancient Brittany. 
 Thither Dentz conducted two gendarmes, pointed out the house in 
 which she was ; and she was arrested. The duchess was imprisoned 
 a short time ; but Thiers, always fierce before he succeeded in his 
 purpose, became lenient when he had his victim in his grasp. He 
 refused to bring the duchess to trial, and sent her out of France with 
 a very courteous but distinct warning not to return. 
 
 Although Thiers voted for, and advocated, Prince Louis Napoleon 
 (afterwards emperor) for president after the revolution of 1848, he 
 soon began to oppose his policy, and ended by becoming very hostile 
 to him. Finally, Napoleon put in execution his famous coup d\ ( tat of 
 December, 185 1, one of the acts of which was the sudden arrest of all 
 the deputies who were his enemies. Among these was Thiers. On 
 that cold winter morning, before daybreak, a police-officer entered 
 Thiers's bedroom, where the little statesman was sleeping soundly. 
 He awoke him, and said, — 
 
 "Monsieur Thiers, I have a warrant for your arrest." 
 
 Thiers sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes, and gazed at the officer 
 for a moment in mute surprise. Then he exclaimed indignantly, —
 
 ADOLPHE THIERS. 335 
 
 " Sir, who are you ? and how dare you enter my bedroom ? " 
 
 " I am the Commissary H , and I am ordered by the president 
 
 to arrest you." 
 
 " But do you not know that I am a deputy, and that the persons 
 of deputies cannot be violated ? " 
 
 " I can only do my duty, Monsieur Thiers. I have my orders, and 
 I must obey them. Proceed to dress yourself, monsieur, and come 
 along with me." 
 
 " I protest against this ! It is an outrage ! " exclaimed the irate 
 little man, with flashing eyes, and squeaking voice. 
 
 He was, however, forced to submit, and soon found himself in one 
 of the Paris prisons, with a number of his fellow-deputies. In a few 
 days he was taken out, but not set free. He was carried by gendarmes 
 out of Paris, across France, and politely set down beyond the Belgian 
 frontier. Six months elapsed before he was allowed to return to his 
 own country. 
 
 It was Monsieur Thiers's habit, when making a speech, to have a 
 cup of coffee and a glass of water before him ; and, as he spoke, he 
 would every now and then take a sip of the coffee, following it up at 
 once with a sip from the tumbler of water. He was a very effective 
 orator, though his figure was the reverse of imposing ; and his voice 
 was so high and thin, that it resembled a squeak. He had wonderful 
 powers of endurance, and, at seventy-five or six years of age, could 
 make a speech three or four hours in length, and appear as fresh, 
 lively, and chatty after it as before it, often going from the chamber, 
 where he had delivered one of these long addresses, to an evening 
 reception, and remaining there, active and brilliant, till long after 
 midnight.
 
 QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 I. 
 
 OPENING PARLIAMENT. 
 
 ALL was strange and new in England ; but the real queerness 
 began when we reached London, at four o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 "'Ave a four-wheeler, ma'am ? Take hall your boxes." 
 
 A "four-wheeler" is Londonese for a hack; and common, dirty, 
 disreputable-looking hacks they are. Your "boxes" — no one says 
 trunks in England, unless they are talking of elephants — your boxes 
 are put up on the top of the four-wheeler in which you seat yourself, 
 and kept in place by a railing which surrounds the ungainly vehicle. 
 
 Thus, with all our worldly goods above our devoted heads, we were 
 driven to the Charing-Cross Hotel. It is one of the largest hotels in 
 London ; but it has no smart clerk, like the little great-man of the 
 American hotel. The office duties are discharged by young women, 
 — civil, kind, attentive, and perfectly competent to their business. 
 
 A room is assigned us, and we go up on the " lift " (no one says 
 elevator in London). There is no bell by which to summon this con- 
 venience ; and if at any time being a flight or two above the entrance- 
 floor, you want to be carried a few stories farther up, you are expected 
 to lean over the stairs, and shout, " Send up the lift, please ; " and, 
 after a while, it comes creaking along. In your chamber you find 
 wooden benches, two of them ; but no rocking-chair, no furnace-regis- 
 ter ; worst of all, no gas. A bedroom-candle scarcely makes darkness 
 visible ; for, in February, London is dark at five o'clock in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 " Will you 'ave dressing-lights ? " asks the neat, fresh-faced cham- 
 336
 
 QUEEN VICTORIA. 337 
 
 ber-maid. This sounds imposing. We reply in the affirmative, and 
 expect a grand illumination. " Kerosene lamps, at least," my friend 
 says ; but that sounds hardly grand enough for the air with which the 
 dressing-lights have been proffered us. 
 
 Presently the maid re-enters, and bears, with a gravity befitting 
 the occasion, a candle in each hand, — tall, new candles these, and set 
 in sticks that look like silver. Dorothy — we call all our English 
 maids Dorothy — sets down the dressing-lights with a stately air, and 
 departs ; and we see but little better than before. 
 
 But notwithstanding the dim lights, and the missing rocking- 
 chairs, and the open fires, which burn your nose, and freeze your back, 
 we presently find ourselves in love with London. We wish, mildly, 
 that they would have street-crossings ; for the streets are fearfully 
 muddy in winter. We would be glad if it weren't so foggy. We 
 regret that they should cover their hackney carriages with advertise- 
 ments of silver polish and soap ; but these are trifles, and London is 
 — London. What a charm the very street-signs have for us, familiar 
 as they have been to us all our lives in our reading ! 
 
 We mean to stay one day only, and we stay six. But the sixth 
 day is the opening of Parliament, at which the Queen is to appear in 
 person, for the first time in five years. The papers are all full of an- 
 ticipation. One or two venture a little sneer, and say that her Majesty 
 wishes to conciliate the people, because she has another daughter to 
 marry off, and wants to put the Commons in good-humor, in order that 
 they may vote the aforesaid poverty-stricken princess a handsome 
 supply of pin-money. But, for the most part, the mentions of the 
 forthcoming ceremony are in a spirit of grateful and humble reverence, 
 which is rather astonishing to us, the descendants of rebels, whose 
 centennial year is just begun. 
 
 It was quite a triumph to get tickets for this grand occasion. 
 Thousands had been refused, before a friend, who chanced to be the 
 brother of a noble earl, and so to have much influence at his command, 
 asked for, and obtained ours. On the ticket was printed, — 
 
 "No one admitted, except in full dress." 
 
 Now, "full" dress means, not more clothes than usual, but less. 
 It means a low-necked gown, and that doesn't sound comfortable in 
 February. But Roman Pompey — strong old hero — said once, when 
 he was told by an oracle, that, if he went to a certain place where duty 
 called him, he would surely die, " It is necessary to go. It is not 
 necessary to live."
 
 338 QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 For us, it was necessary to see the Queen : it was not necessary to 
 be comfortable. So we got ourselves into our evening-dresses, and then 
 into a four-wheeler. We thought of a brougham and a man-servant ; 
 but we concluded to save our shillings, and trust to luck. So we fell 
 into the line of gorgeous carriages, in our old four-wheeler, with a cer- 
 tain satisfaction in the thought of our safe obscurity. 
 
 It was a day of snow and sleet and bleak winds, and we hugged 
 our shawls around our shivering shoulders as we drove along slowly 
 between the throngs of eager sight-seers who filled the sidewalks. 
 
 Parliament Street was brave with flags, and flamed with red bunt- 
 ing at every window. Everywhere were soldiers — life-guards, hussars, 
 etc. — keeping the patient, waiting populace within their due limits. I 
 wondered whether it was the sentiment of loyalty, or merely the love 
 of a fine show, which held the tired throng standing there, hour after 
 hour, so patiently. 
 
 In the House of Lords the scene was not brilliant at first, because 
 it was so dimly lighted. The gas was turned low, and the dull Febru- 
 ary day scarcely penetrated through the gorgeous painted windows. 
 The house was nearly filled at half-past one, — an hour before the 
 Queen was expected. About two, the full force of the gas was turned 
 on ; and then the house seemed all ablaze with splendor. 
 
 There were the ambassadors from foreign countries, glittering with 
 decorations. The bishops were there, too, stately in their robes ; and 
 the judges, funny enough in their wigs, which looked like sheepskins 
 with the wool well curled ; the peers, in their scarlet and ermine ; 
 the pretty, young peeresses, with their graceful Paris gowns, and their 
 eyes as bright as the diamonds that they wore ; the old peeresses, for 
 whom grace and beauty were only traditions of a long-forgotten past, 
 whose jewels mocked their faded faces, and whose feathers nodded 
 over heads no longer fair : it was altogether a glittering spectacle. 
 
 The house was cold, and the noble ladies drew their shawls and 
 opera-cloaks tightly round them. But presently came a general whis- 
 per that the Queen was coming : and, instantly, all the wraps were 
 dropped ; and fair necks, sallow necks, fat necks, scrawny necks, all 
 alike, were bared, in honor of her Majesty. 
 
 A cannon was discharged ; and then the pursuivants were seen 
 filing through the doorway, at the left of the throne. Then came the 
 heralds, the " Gentlemen of the Household," the great Officers of 
 State, and then the Queen herself, accompanied by the Princess of 
 Wales, the Princess Louise, and the Princess Beatrice, and attended
 
 QUEEN VICTORIA. 339 
 
 by the Mistress of the Robes and the Lady in Waiting. Then came 
 Officers of the Household, lord this and lord that, Gold-stick and 
 Silver-stick, officers, pages, and sergeants-at-arms, with whom the pro- 
 cession closes. 
 
 The Queen takes her seat. She is a stout woman, of over sixty ; 
 and she never could have been handsome, even in her youthful prime. 
 Now her honest, round, elderly face was flushed with excitement, or 
 with the exercise of walking, to an unbecoming dark red. 
 
 She wore a dress which called itself low-necked, but was quite 
 modestly high compared to those which many other ladies had donned 
 in honor of her royal presence. It was of black velvet ; and she was 
 sumptuous with lace and miniver, and 
 magnificent with diamonds, among which 
 was the famous Koh-i-noor, sparkling like 
 a little sun among lesser stars. I should 
 never have guessed that she was a queen, 
 but for her good clothes, and the fuss 
 they were all making about her. 
 
 On one side the throne, where her 
 Majesty sat serenely fronting the assem- 
 bled and admiring throng, was the Prin- 
 cess Beatrice ; and, on the other, the 
 Princess Louise, — nice, wholesome-look- 
 ing young ladies, with nothing remarkable about them. They adjusted 
 the royal robes which hung on the throne behind their mother. The 
 noble lords and ladies, who had accompanied the Queen, placed them- 
 selves in proper position before her ; and then came the funniest little 
 bit of play-acting. 
 
 The House of Commons, you must know, is very tenacious of its 
 dignity as the representative of the people, — the Queen's rival sov- 
 eign ; and though, of course, their presence is expected at the opening 
 of Parliament, by no means will they come unsummoned, or appear to 
 take any interest in the proceedings. They are assembled in their 
 own House, attending to their own business ; and they "play," as the 
 children say, that they do not know that any thing unusual is going on. 
 
 When every thing is arranged, the Queen looks about her ; and 
 then she "plays" that she is very much surprised not to see her Gen- 
 tlemen of the House of Commons. She then despatches the yeoman 
 usher to summon the Commons to her presence. 
 
 Presently, tramp, tramp, skurry, skurry, in they come. There must
 
 34° QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 have been a good many of them, by the noise they made ; but as they 
 took their stand directly under the foreign gallery, where I sat, I could 
 not see them, and lost the opportunity to compare the representatives 
 of the people with the peers, — the men of struggle and aspiration 
 with the men placed by birth beyond the need of struggle. 
 
 Then, all being ready, there was a moment of intense expectation. 
 That the Queen's speech had been written for her, we all knew ; but 
 that she would read it herself, we all expected. 
 
 So far, she had not opened her lips ; and we wanted to hear her 
 voice, to divine thereby, if we might, what quality of gracious queen- 
 liness she had. But queens, it seems, are not bound to keep faith with 
 the expectations of their subjects. 
 
 Now came another piece of dumb-show. The speech was handed 
 to her, and she held it for an instant. Then she beckoned to the lord 
 chancellor ; and he received it from her hands, and announced that 
 he was commanded by the Queen to read it. 
 
 The command had been given in pantomime ; for not once, from 
 first to last, did the royal lady open her mouth. The lord chancellor 
 read well, — slowly, distinctly, and with good emphasis. 
 
 When the speech was over, her Majesty rose, and bowed to the 
 Princess of Wales, the Duchess of Edinburgh, and the Princess Mary, 
 who had been seated exactly fronting her. 
 
 Perhaps this gracious bow was meant to glance sideways, and take 
 in the rest of the House : but it did not look so ; and, therefore, I did 
 not appropriate any of it to myself. Then she went out solemnly, this 
 royal lady, escorted as before, and betook herself to her carriage. 
 
 After her Majesty had departed, the shivering peeresses, and the 
 rest of us shivering women, were permitted to pull our shawls and 
 opera-cloaks about our frozen shoulders ; and presently we began to 
 make our slow way down-stairs. 
 
 Then the carriages were called, and drew up, one by one, before 
 the entrance. " Lord So-and-so's carriage stops the way," was bawled 
 by one gorgeous flunkey after another; and "Lord So-and-so" passed 
 through the throng, and got in. His coachman started off at a rattling 
 pace, even while his two or three footmen were in the very act of 
 scrambling up behind. I expected them to break their unfortunate 
 necks, but they didn't. 
 
 What gorgeous creatures they were, to be sure! The lords them- 
 selves showed small, in comparison with these big fellows, with blue 
 coats and yellow coats and green coats, all covered with gold lace and
 
 THE QUEEN AND PRINCE ALBERT. 341 
 
 silver lace, and embroidery and buttons, till decoration could no farther 
 go. I had plenty of time to watch them in the hour and a half before 
 my turn came. 
 
 I watched the noble lords and ladies also, whose carriages were 
 called. 
 
 Some of the women were extremely pretty, but those were the 
 younger ones. The English fair are fair no longer, " once they have 
 come to forty year." Hawthorne's descriptions of them, at which they 
 raged so, do them no more than justice. 
 
 Somebody says that the best part of a journey is the getting home 
 from it ; and so to me the best part of Parliament Day was the quiet 
 hour of rest and warmth and dinner at the Charing Cross afterwards, 
 where I sat and bethought me of the moral of all this, and contrasted 
 the Republican simplicity in which I had been brought up, with all the 
 pomp and pageantry I had just witnessed. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE QUEEN AND PRINCE ALBERT. 
 
 For many years Queen Victoria has mourned for one of the best 
 husbands, and one of the wisest advisers, that ever a female sovereign 
 had. Prince Albert, to whom she had been united for twenty-one 
 years, died in December, 1861, just at the opening of our war of the 
 Rebellion ; and in such respect and affection is his memory still held, 
 that a splendid monument has been erected to his honor in the very 
 heart of London. 
 
 The marriage of Victoria and Albert was a love-match, — a not 
 very common thing in unions of princes and princesses. They were 
 first cousins ; Albert's father and Victoria's mother having been brother 
 and sister, the children of the Duke of Coburg. But, when they be- 
 came engaged, their situations were very different. Victoria was the 
 young Queen of one of the mightiest and proudest empires on earth. 
 Albert was only the younger son of a poor and petty German prince, 
 "across whose dominion one might walk in half a day." 
 
 But their relationship and the plans of their family served to bring 
 them together at a very early age, and they were very young when 
 their union was first thought of. Old King Leopold of Belgium was 
 the uncle of both of them, and it was he who first conceived the idea 
 of their marriage. But not a word was said to either of them about
 
 342 THE QUEEN AND PRINCE ALBERT. 
 
 it until an affection had grown up between them, and it was time for 
 the young Queen to choose a partner for her heart and throne. 
 
 Albert and Victoria met for the first time when they were both sev- 
 enteen years old. The young prince and his brother went to England 
 to pay a visit to their aunt and cousin, and the young couple were 
 brought together. Albert, at that time, was rather short and thick- 
 set, but fine-looking, rosy-cheeked, natural and simple in his manners, 
 and of a cheerful disposition. He took a great deal of interest in 
 ever)' thing about him, and, while on his visit to England, spent much 
 time in playing on the piano with his cousin Victoria, who was then a 
 slight, graceful, and interesting girl. 
 
 She fell in love with him at once ; but he, though he liked her, 
 was not so quickly impressed. He wrote to his uncle Leopold that 
 " our cousin is very amiable," but had no stronger praise for her. Al- 
 bert then returned to the Continent, and spent some years in travel 
 and study, writing occasionally to Victoria, and she to him. Mean- 
 while King William IV. died ; and Victoria, in her eighteenth year, 
 ascended the British throne. 
 
 The young prince's next visit took place in the year after this 
 event, and now his object was to plead for the hand and heart of the 
 young Queen. Victoria could scarcely believe her eyes when she saw 
 him. The short, thick-set boy had grown into a tall, comely youth, 
 with elegant manners, and a strikingly handsome face. Soon after, 
 she wrote to her uncle Leopold, " Albert's beauty is most striking ; and 
 he is most amiable and unaffected, — in short, very fascinating." 
 
 A few days after his arrival, Victoria had made up her mind, and 
 sending for Lord Melbourne, the prime minister, told him that she 
 was going to marry Prince Albert. The next day she sent for the 
 prince; and, "in a genuine outburst of heartiness and love," she de- 
 clared to him that he had gained her whole heart, and would make her 
 very happy if he would share his life with her. He responded with 
 warm affection, and thus they became betrothed. 
 
 The Queen, not only thus " popped the question," but insisted that 
 the marriage should take place at an early day. This was in the sum- 
 mer of 1839; and, in the early winter of 1840, the young couple were 
 married in the royal chapel of St. James', in the midst of general 
 rejoicing, and with great pomp and ceremony. 
 
 Such was the beginning of a happy wedded life, which lasted for 
 over twenty years, and during which the love of each for the other 
 seemed to constantly increase. A little circle of children was soon
 
 THE QUEEN AND PRINCE ALBERT. 343 
 
 formed around the royal hearthstone, and the domestic life of the 
 palace was full of contentment and good order ; and, as Victoria grew 
 older, she learned more and more of the excellent character that Provi- 
 dence had given her for a husband. 
 
 Prince Albert, • 
 
 While Prince Albert assumed the direction of the family affairs, 
 and was the unquestioned master in its private life, he was wise 
 enough to be very careful how he interfered with the Queen in the 
 performance of her public duties. He knew, that, as a foreigner, the 
 English would be very jealous of him if he took part in politics, or 
 tried to influence Victoria in her conduct as a ruler.
 
 344 
 
 THE QUEEN AND PRINCE ALBERT. 
 
 At the same time, the young Queen, scarcely more than a girl, 
 needed a guiding hand, and one that she could trust. No one could 
 be so much trusted as her husband ; and Albert gradually became her 
 adviser on public affairs, as well as the head of her household. At 
 first, there were many grumblings and complaints about this in Eng- 
 land ; but as the purity and good sense of the prince became better 
 known, as it became evident that his ambition was to serve the Queen 
 and the country, these complaints for the most part ceased. 
 
 Prince Albert devoted himself, with all his heart and mind, to the 
 duties which he found weighing upon him as a husband and father, 
 
 and as the most intimate coun- 
 sellor of the monarch of a great 
 country. He denied himself many 
 of the innocent pleasures which 
 lay within his reach, went but 
 little into society, and spent his 
 days and evenings in serious occu- 
 pations, and in the midst of his 
 happy family circle. 
 
 Among other things, he took a 
 very deep interest in the progress 
 of art, science, and education. 
 " His horses," says a writer, 
 " might be seen waiting for him 
 before the studios of artists, the 
 museums of art and science, the 
 institutions for benevolence or 
 culture, but never before the doors of dissipation or mere fashion." 
 
 It was Prince Albert who proposed and planned the great London 
 Exhibition of 1851, the first of the series of "World's Fairs" which 
 have since been so frequently held, the latest being our own Centen- 
 nial ; and, when it had been resolved upon, it was Prince Albert's labor 
 and energy, more than that of any other, which made it a success. 
 
 In his own family circle, Prince Albert was always kind, gentle, 
 and indulgent, but firm and resolute in his treatment of his children. 
 He took a great interest in their studies, and directed their education, 
 sometimes teaching them himself ; and he bestowed an anxious and 
 fatherly care upon the formation of their manners and habits, and a 
 right training of their hearts and minds. 
 
 From first to last, he was as tenderly devoted to the Queen as a 
 
 Prince Albert Memorial.
 
 THE QUEEN AND PRINCE ALBERT. 
 
 345 
 
 lover. He went with her everywhere, and his tastes and hers were 
 entirely congenial. Of a quiet and domestic disposition, he was amply 
 content to find his pleasures in the family circle ; and Victoria took a 
 perpetual delight in his kind and 
 cultivated companionship. 
 
 When Prince Albert died, 
 rather suddenly, in December, 
 1 86 1, the Queen was fairly over- 
 whelmed with grief ; and it was 
 many, many years before she so 
 far recovered from it that she 
 could bear to show herself in pub- 
 lic, or to take part in any social 
 gathering or state ceremony. 
 
 He was placed in a tomb in 
 the beautiful park of Windsor, 
 where she had so often roamed 
 
 /13/U. 
 
 with him in their early wedded 
 
 life ; and every year, on the sad anniversary of his death, Victoria 
 
 repairs to his grave, and prays, and scatters flowers on the tomb. 
 
 The Albert memorial, erected 
 to his memory in Hyde Park, is a 
 tribute, both of the nation and of 
 the Queen, to his purity, virtues, 
 and the value of his life as a hus- 
 band and a public man. 
 
 Its form is that of a highly 
 ornamented shrine or tabernacle, 
 beneath the arched roof of which 
 is placed a large bronze statue of 
 Prince Albert, in a sitting attitude, 
 attired in the robes and insignia 
 of a Knight of the Garter, and 
 with an air of dignity and repose. 
 On the monument is to be seen, in letters of blue glass with black 
 
 edges, on a ground of gold enamelled glass, the following inscription : — 
 
 " Queen Victoria and her Peoplk 
 
 To the Memory of Albert, Prince Consort, 
 
 As a tribute of their gratitude 
 
 For a life devoted to the public good." 
 
 America.
 
 346 THE QUEEN AND PRINCE ALBERT. 
 
 Perhaps the most striking of all the adornments of the memorial 
 are the four sculptured groups of the continents, placed at the four 
 corners of the stone platform, above which the spire rises. Europe, 
 America, Asia, and Africa are represented by allegorical types of their 
 people, and by animals which are peculiar to them. 
 
 By bass-reliefs, allegorical groups, statues, and beautiful symbolic 
 figures, every art and science in which Prince Albert took an interest, 
 and many of which he fostered and promoted, serve to adorn the 
 noble monument erected to his memory, and to recall the many good 
 works he achieved during his busy life.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 By BEN: PERLEY POORE. 
 
 THE announcement that Abraham Lincoln of Illinois had been 
 elected President of the United States was received with dismay 
 at the national capital by what was known as "Washington society." 
 Old gentlemen who had been appointed to office by President Jackson, 
 and their wives, who remembered the receptions of " Dolly " Madison, 
 were profoundly astonished. Among the younger generation of Fed- 
 eral place-holders, there were howlings of despair ; and caricatures of 
 " Old Abe " were circulated with great satisfaction. Many from the 
 Southern States believed that the Republican party was determined 
 to degrade their section of the country by denying what they regarded 
 as its constitutional rights ; and they avowed their determination to en- 
 list under the " Southern Cross " with some bravado, but with a courage 
 that never faltered. 
 
 Some of the door-keepers at the Capitol remembered Mr. Lincoln 
 when he was in the Thirtieth Congress as a Whig representative from 
 Illinois, all of his six colleagues being Democrats. His seat was on 
 the outer range, near a door which led into the post-office of the House, 
 where he used to pass much of his time, telling stories, or listening to 
 the stories of others. 
 
 His sallow features were then clean shaven, showing the prom- 
 inence of his high cheek-bones, and his firm under jaw. His forehead 
 was broad, his nose strongly aquiline, and his pleasant eyes twinkled 
 from beneath his black eyebrows when he made a point in conversa- 
 tion. Those who knew him, liked him ; and when, at the expiration 
 of his Congressional term, he applied for appointment as commissioner- 
 general of the Land Office, the leading Whigs in the House generally 
 signed his petition. 
 
 347
 
 348 RECOLLECTIONS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 When Mr. Lincoln arrived, in advance of the announced time, to 
 escape threatened assassination, he brought his inaugural address with 
 him in print, rather to the annoyance of Mr. Seward, who, as Secretary 
 of State of the new administration, had hoped to draught the production 
 which was so eagerly awaited by the country. Mr. Lincoln had writ- 
 ten his inaugural at Springfield, and had had it confidentially put in 
 type by his friend, the local printer. Four copies were printed on 
 foolscap paper ; and, wherever the writer thought that a paragraph 
 would be effective, he preceded it with a typographic fist. 
 
 A carpet-bag, containing these printed copies of the forthcoming 
 inaugural, was intrusted by Mr. Lincoln to his eldest son, "Bob," now 
 Secretary of War, who was so taken aback by the enthusiastic recep- 
 tion which they received at Harrisburg, that he permitted a waiter to 
 take it, and forgot all about it. When asked for it by his father, he 
 was forced to confess that he knew not where it was. Mr. Lincoln 
 immediately started for the baggage-room ; and, striding over the bar- 
 rier at the door, he began overhauling, without ceremony, a large pile 
 of carpet-bags, until he was fortunate enough to find the one contain- 
 ing the precious document. 
 
 After arriving at Washington, Mr. Lincoln gave one copy of his 
 inaugural to Mr. Seward, and another to the venerable Francis P. Blair, 
 asking them to read and criticise. Some changes were made, of no 
 great importance, which were given to Mr. Nicolay, the President's 
 private secretary, to write in a fair hand on one of the printed copies, 
 from which Mr. Lincoln was to read. Mr. Nicolay corrected another 
 copy, which was furnished to the press, and which I now own. 
 
 As the day for inauguration approached, the people at Washington 
 grew more and more excited ; and every day witnessed the departure 
 southward of members of Congress, officers of the army and navy, 
 and clerks in the departments. A clergyman in Georgetown, who 
 went to Richmond, locked up his favorite cat in the cellar of his house 
 with what he thought would be thirty days' rations, expecting before 
 that time to return in triumph with the government of the Southern 
 Confederacy. 
 
 Great exertions were made to have the ceremonies of the inaugu- 
 ration equal those of previous occasions, and the procession was es- 
 corted by a considerable force of the recently organized militia of the 
 district ; the members of a company of sharp-shooters having been 
 posted on prominent house-tops along Pennsylvania Avenue, with in- 
 structions to fire on any one whom they might see aiming at Mr.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OE ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 349 
 
 Lincoln. The Regulars were under command of Gen. Scott, then old, 
 infirm, and too heavy to mount a horse. He rode in a coupt, and re- 
 mained, during the exercises, near a light battery, stationed near the 
 
 Abraham Lincoln, 
 [from " Twenty Years of Congress."] 
 
 Capitol, with its pieces loaded with grape-shot, in case there should 
 be an outbreak. 
 
 When Mr. Lincoln came out on the platform in front of the Capitol, 
 his tall figure rising above those around him, the usual genial smile 
 was on his angular countenance ; but he seemed much perplexed to
 
 350 RECOLLECTIONS OE ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 know what to do with a new silk hat, and a large gold-headed cane. 
 The cane he put under the table, but the hat appeared to be too good 
 to place on the rough boards. Senator Douglas saw the embarrass- 
 ment of his old friend, and, rising, took the shining hat from its both- 
 ered owner, and held it during the delivery of the inaugural address. 
 Mr. Lincoln was listened to with great earnestness, and evidently de- 
 sired to convince the multitude before him, rather than to bewilder or 
 dazzle them. It was evident to all, that he honestly believed every 
 word that he spoke, especially the concluding paragraph, which I copy 
 from the original print : — 
 
 " lO^ I am l°th to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be 
 enemies. Though passion may be strained, it must not break our bonds of affection, 
 (rfg^* The mystic chords of memory which stretch from every battle-field and patriot 
 grave to every loved heart and hearthstone all over our broad land, will yet swell 
 the chorus of the Union when again touched, as they surely will be, by the better 
 angels of our nature." 
 
 The Senate remained convened in executive session until the 28th 
 of March. Breckinridge sat as a senator from Kentucky ; while Vir- 
 ginia, North Carolina, and Texas had senators who openly advocated 
 rebellion, and spurned allegiance to the United States. The Republi- 
 cans generally remained quiet during this debate of twenty-three days, 
 or spoke in words of conciliation. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln was hardly installed in the White House before the 
 wild hunt for office commenced. Among other good stories told of 
 him was one of a man who came, day after day, asking for a foreign 
 mission. At last the President, weary of his face, said, — 
 
 " Do you know Spanish ? " 
 
 " No," said the eager aspirant ; " but I could soon learn it." 
 
 "Do so," said Mr. Lincoln, "and I will give you a good thing." 
 
 The needy politician hurried home, and spent six months in study- 
 ing Ollendorff Grammar. He then re-appeared at the White House 
 with a hopeful heart, and a fine Castilian accent ; and the President 
 presented him with — a copy of " Don Quixote " in Spanish. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln, while at the White House, rose in good season, and 
 often devoted an hour before breakfast to his private correspondence. 
 After breakfast he went to his office ; and his secretary would bring 
 him the letters received by mail, taking notes of any replies which 
 Mr. Lincoln would wish to make. At nine o'clock, to use his own 
 expression, he opened shop. First, the senators and representatives
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OE ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 35 I 
 
 had their interviews, one at a time, each one with his budget of appli- 
 cations for office ; and Mr. Lincoln often detained those whom he liked 
 for a chat. Next came the cabinet officers, and by this time it was 
 noon. Retiring to the dining-room for lunch, Mr. Lincoln would re- 
 turn, and receive the people as the King of France used to receive his 
 subjects under the great oak at Fontainebleau. Office-seekers, refu- 
 gees, solicitors for pardons, philanthropists, and cranks swarmed about 
 him, but did not appear to annoy him. 
 
 On the contrary, he rather seemed to enjoy the rush. To one he 
 told a story, to another he gave advice, to a third he demonstrated that 
 he could do nothing. Indeed, he would say on signing an order for a 
 furlough, "Take this to the war department, but I have very little 
 influence there." 
 
 About three o'clock the secretaries generally dropped in, although 
 the old-fashioned cabinet-meetings were rarely held. Later in the 
 afternoon he would accompany Mrs. Lincoln on a drive, returning to 
 dine at five. In the evening he occasionally went to the theatre, but 
 generally remained at home to hear the requests and the grievances of 
 importunate place-hunters, or would-be consuls. 
 
 The leading Republicans at Washington were soon irresistibly 
 drawn towards him by his hearty and unassuming deportment. If 
 his manner was at times somewhat unusual, it was never uncouth, or 
 showed a lack of culture. The grasp of his mind was strong and tena- 
 cious ; and it was evident that he scanned matters presented to him 
 closely, canvassed them thoroughly in his own mind, concluded delib- 
 erately, and held to such conclusions unflinchingly. 
 
 When left to himself, he had a depressed, troubled look, and often 
 would sit for hours gazing into the unknown. The key of his voice, at 
 the same time, was that of thorough frankness, good-humor, and uncon- 
 sciousness of observation. He apparently had no dread of his visitors 
 seeing his mind exactly as it worked ; and he had no care whatever, 
 except of thinking and speaking truthfully what came first, regardless 
 of any policy, or management of its impression on the listener. 
 
 His stories were parables in which he gave his opinion on what- 
 ever was presented to him, and their very quaintness contributed to 
 the general good-humor with which they were always received. He 
 possessed fewer liberal accomplishments and less culture than his pre- 
 decessors at the White House; but he enjoyed great, qualities which 
 they lacked, foremost the king quality of courage, physical, moral, and 
 political.
 
 352 RECOLLECTIONS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 The lobby — that great devil-fish, whose tentacles clutch clammily 
 at the national treasury — could never get on the blind side of Mr. 
 Lincoln. He treated them with courtesy, but would never encourage 
 their schemes. His favorite among the Washington correspondents 
 was Mr. Simon B. Hanscom, — a shrewd Bostonian, who had been 
 identified with the earlier anti-slavery movements, and who used to 
 keep Mr. Lincoln informed as to what was going on in Washington, 
 carrying him what he heard, and seldom asking a favor. 
 
 " I see you state," said the President to Hanscom one day, " that 
 my administration will be the reign of steel. Why not add that 
 Buchanan's was the reign of stealing?" 
 
 Mr. Lincoln, as I have remarked, spoke in parables ; and a story 
 often ended an interview which otherwise might have been prolonged 
 for hours. On one occasion a distinguished visitor was endeavoring 
 to recall to his mind a young man whom he had seen, but forgotten, 
 who was an applicant for office. Mr. Lincoln evidently did not think 
 that the young man was qualified for the position ; and he finally 
 said, — 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I know who you mean. It is that turkey-egg-faced 
 fellow that you would think didn't know as much as a last year's bird's- 
 nest." 
 
 Nothing more was said about the appointment. 
 
 Finding that hostilities were inevitable, Mr. Lincoln issued his 
 proclamation, calling for seventy-five thousand troops, which went over 
 the loyal North like the signal of Roderick Dhu, and was responded 
 to by thousands of brave men who hastened to the defence of the 
 metropolis. The first arrival of volunteers, in response to the procla- 
 mation, was on the afternoon of March 18, when four companies came 
 from Pennsylvania. They were neither armed nor uniformed ; and they 
 wore their old working-clothing, expecting to throw it away when sup- 
 plied with uniforms. Quarters were provided for them in the Capitol ; 
 and, as they marched into and through the rotunda, a negro camp- 
 follower named Nick Biddle, who accompanied the Pottsville company, 
 took off his cap. He had been wounded in the head by a brickbat, 
 thrown at the troops as they marched through Baltimore, and had 
 stanched the gash with his handkerchief, which had absorbed the 
 blood. When he removed his cap, the handkerchief remained in it ; 
 and the blood dripped on the stone floors as the man marched along, — 
 the first blood shed in the civil war. 
 
 The next afternoon a portion of the Massachusetts Sixth was
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 353 
 
 assaulted as it moved through Baltimore without its field-officers, they 
 having gone ahead of the detachment in a car. Then there were three 
 long days, during which Washington was isolated from the North, and 
 when the Confederate forces on the southern bank of the Potomac 
 might have easily occupied the metropolis. 
 
 At last succor came ; and the slogan of the Scottish piper was not 
 a more acceptable sound to the besieged British at Lucknow, than was 
 "Yankee Doodle," played by the drums and fifes of the Massachusetts 
 Eighth, which had come, under Gen. Ben. Butler, to Annapolis, and 
 marched across Maryland to the relief of Washington. Regiment 
 after regiment followed, many wearing the home national uniforms of 
 the naturalized citizens in their ranks who had rallied around the flag 
 of their adopted country. Scotch Highlanders, Italian sharp-shooters, 
 German infantry, and the elite of the militia of the loyal States, came 
 to Washington, and invariably paid the President a marching salute at 
 the White House before going to their assigned quarters, the music of 
 their bands echoing among the public buildings. They came from the 
 Atlantic seaports, from the shores of the great lakes, from populous 
 cities, from rural homesteads, to save the capital, and to fight for the 
 Union. And heartily did they cheer when they saw their commander- 
 in-chief, — a tall and ungainly man, yet of the people, and for the 
 people. 
 
 President Lincoln was much troubled as to who should be placed 
 in command of the Federal army ; and, after much conference, he re- 
 quested Mr. Francis P. Blair to call on Col. Robert E. Lee, then at 
 Arlington, the homestead of his wife's family. Mr. Blair informed 
 Col. Lee of the desire of President Lincoln, that he would take com- 
 mand of the army which was immediately to be brought into the field. 
 Col. Lee, after listening attentively to what was said, declined the 
 offer, stating candidly and courteously, that although he was opposed 
 to secession, and deprecated war, he could take no part in an invasion 
 of the Southern States. Col. Lee went, after Mr. Blair had left, to 
 the headquarters of Gen. Scott, and told him of the proposition that 
 had been made and declined. Two days afterwards he forwarded his 
 resignation, and the next day repaired to Richmond, and found that 
 the convention then in session had passed the ordinance withdrawing 
 the State from the Union, and accepted the commission of commander 
 of the State's forces which was tendered him. 
 
 Among those who came from Illinois to Washington with Mr. Lin- 
 coln, was a young man named Ellsworth, who had organized and drilled
 
 354 RECOLLECTIONS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 a Chicago volunteer company with great success. He hoped to be 
 placed in charge of the militia of the country, and Mr. Lincoln was 
 desirous that he should have that position ; but the war department 
 was opposed to it. When Sumter was fired on, Ellsworth hastened to 
 New York, and obtained the colonelcy of a regiment composed of 
 volunteer firemen, uniformed as Zouaves, which he led to Washington. 
 One morning he visited Mr. Lincoln, who showed him, from his room 
 at the White House, a Confederate flag, which waved over a hotel in 
 Alexandria, and expressed his regret at its appearance. When, a few 
 days afterwards, Col. Ellsworth was ordered to Alexandria in command 
 of his regiment, his first thought was to go personally, and seize that 
 flag. In taking it he lost his life, falling in the pride of his youth and 
 usefulness. His remains were brought to Washington, and President 
 Lincoln wept as he gazed' on them. The war had begun. 
 
 The great Uprising of the North was a remarkable chapter in the 
 history of the United States. Political alliances, family bonds, and 
 commercial ties were all at once rent asunder, the great Northern heart 
 swelling with fierce indignation. States and cities sent men and sup- 
 plies, the hardy yeomanry and the skilful mechanics hastened to enlist, 
 capitalists furnished the funds for the equipment and maintenance of 
 the troops, and the people of the North encouraged those who repre- 
 sented them in the field. Neither were the loyal women backward. 
 They not only encouraged the enlistment of their fathers, brothers, 
 husbands, or lovers, but they kept the Union armies supplied with 
 more comforts than any army had ever known before. This devotion 
 touched Mr. Lincoln's heart ; and, in a speech which he made at the 
 closing of a soldiers' fair in Washington, he said, — 
 
 " I am not accustomed to the use of the language of eulogy. I have never 
 studied the art of paying compliments to women ; but I must say, that if all that has 
 been said by orators and poets, since the creation of the world, in praise of women, 
 were applied to the women of America, it would not do them justice for their conduct 
 during this war. I will close by saying, God bless the women of America ! "
 
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